Swallowed in the Sea

The only thing I've learned through blogging was that there are thoughts that exist which just cannot be expressed through words. No matter how many times one tries.

I always played with the boys as a kid. I don't know why but at that time I got a long better than with girls. A muddy shirt felt better than a clean dress, the bruises and scrapes felt good because they speak volumes about how they were born. The scar on my hand spanning a whole 3 millimeters tells the tale of two reckless children and a blue ceramic plate. Running through the woods and pretending to shoot other kids was much more interesting to me than Barbies or sidewalk chalk. It still is. But I can play a role.

Spencer cruised up the street grinning. No anticipation of the repercussions that came with repeatedly teasing the sleeping dragon of adolescent masculinity. The wolf pack of high school boys prepared to chase him but one shot a question at me first. He wanted to know Spencer's name and barked as much in my direction. Wanting to protect his identity, I shuffled my feet and said "...Phil Collins". It was the first name that popped into my head. The boy's eyes rolled around in his skull confusedly. His expression suggested that he had heard the name before but couldn't put his finger on where or when. He shrugged and they tore up the street after Spencer: "Hey Phil!" Spencer was already long out of sight.

"Swing"

"Sheets"