Doing Flips, Crawling On The Floor, Fighting Demons, Eating A Chair, Chewing On Glass, Ripping My Hair

Doing flips, crawling on the floor, fighting demons, eating a chair, chewing on glass, ripping my hair out, crying, sobbing, beyond saving.

ME ME ME!! I HAVE EGGS IN MY POCKET!! ITS ME IM THE SILLY ONE SO SILLY SO SILLY IM SO SIL

My mug warms my hands as I gaze out at the sea, the waves crashing and seagulls calling reminds me of a time when I once felt at peace. I take a deep breath, the fresh sea air and the steam from my green tea filling my senses, telling me that I have everything I could have ever wanted - 

And yet, I find myself aching for something more. 

I sip my tea and sigh, the leaves over brewed and bitter to the tongue; I’ve been standing on the sand for longer than I realized. It’s easy to get lost in it, to lose yourself as you study the shore and try to understand the lessons that it wishes to show you. A crab skitters along the edge, holding its ground as the water licks at its little feet and tries to tempt it back into the water. 

Oh, to be a crab in the water. No worries, no stress, their only responsibility to eat and reproduce. To live in the water and let the waves guide you, to never know the feeling of anything but the world’s weight as it pushes down on you and wishes to bury your head under the water. To just live. 

Perhaps I should move back home, tell my family I’ve become a failure… and that I’ll never become a published author. My place beside the sea feels almost forbidden, as if I was never meant to be there. But if not here… where? 

“Elliot,” a voice calls, pulling me from my dramatic thoughts and back to the real world. The sun still shines above us, the warm summer breeze rustling my clothes as I turn to look at the person whom I’ve come to admire. 

The farmer stands behind me, a single large brown egg in hand, holding it out to me like the most sacred offering. Their smile is contagious as ever as I gently take the egg from them. 

“Oh, a present! Thank you!”

They’re gone without another word, shuffling along the shore and shoving shells in their pockets. 

It’s then that I realize what I’ve been aching for. 

And it’s the silly little farmer with eggs in their pockets.