The air is exactly the right temperature

The air is exactly the right temperature, but it is not moving through my house in a way that I can feel it more than a foot from a window. Every now and then a breeze gets ambitious and I can feel a fledgling draft against my leg. The air is alive. What a wonder.

My legs ache. No disaster. Just a footnote. Sleep would be a terrific idea, but I am fulminant with a dream of who I might be seething under every square inch of my skin. As if clouds ready with rain were my subcutaneous; and the lightening was less individual strikes, and more a continuous aura of current.

Maybe I’ve found it!” is what I am thinking. Not even willing to speak it above a whisper in my mentis. Maybe I’ve found my heaven. The gasping, stomach swooping, excitement is a likely sign. The metallic fear that I am completely wrong about me again. A thoughtful, relentless series of positive actions. It’s no coincidence that terrifying and terrific begin the same way. I’m gonna harness that lightning. I’m gonna glow.

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