Today I am a one-woman earthquake, shaking the carpet with the balls of my feet, a surface of scars that heal in the rain long before I've memorized them.
I am not overwhelmed. I feel fine.
I feel psychedelic carwashes and pinto beans and stretched out quadriceps. I am thinking of cracked heels and moonshine, the way the one feels and the other tastes, and how last night they were the same.
I suppose I'm not ordinary, in the way everyone is not ordinary, but I do feel it. I feel normal. I feel like I'm not-that-clever and not-that-brave and not-that-kind. I am enough, but I am the same brand of everything as everyone else is. So I take solace in the way that (I am sure) there is beauty in a blade of grass or a big bowl of chili. I mean, the way a thing you could find anywhere else is still exactly what you want when it's right in front of you.
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