01/18/24

Walking to the edge, the salt stings their nose. They breathe in and all at once it is as if every living creature that has ever existed is filtered in the air. The wet, expired grass overpowers the mass of salt water that has infiltrated their senses, and they pull back. Turning away, they try and cleanse their palette, taking in the freshness of the air opposite of the ocean. They begin to walk and trip, now attacked by the dust that works to coat their lungs, forcing them to cough it up, and suddenly everything smells metallic. They are uncertain if it is the rocks on their face or blood in their throat. Admitting their defeat, they lay back and wiped their face, suddenly aware of the difference between the piercing smell of saltwater and dead fish and the softness and warmness of their own skin. Keeping their hand over their nose, they huff in that coziness as if it were an oxygen mask that had fallen from a crashing plane. Everything seems calmer now, the wind has shifted and there is nothing else but their own essence.