i walked a mountain side alone for three weeks straight. it was all i could take. my year of the self fell short to selfish insecurity.
the comfort of warm bath water and black reflective surfaces were enough to turn my back to the mountain. i crawled bac(more)k into my cubicle life. i put my hand into my pocket to connect to the instant gratification but instead i found a mountain fern. i never put that mountain fern in my pocket. i tried not to think of how it got there. instead i plucked at its leaves awhile. a pang of guilt and existential crisis stirred in me with each pluck.
“this isn’t how you should live.”
“this isn’t where you should be.”
what a waste of a life.
i buried the mountain fern back at the mountain side. but most nights when I’m asleep i feel it against my palm.