Prose 6

It’s a false sirens song of safety, not a love affair, I have with the sea, as she whips salt and sand and cold air through my beard. It is such a personal and enveloping feeling. The hand of mother ocean saying hello, holding your face tight around the jaw as a mother does a child to keep the head supported from fatal falls.

Drive was the only thing that could keep me feeling warm as the dark clouds thundered closer, and I knew a decision had to be made before my three hour drive back to Seattle.

It didn’t get made.

It still wasn’t decided after a two hour flight to Salt Lake, and even through a restless night where a best friend and I hiked around the legnth of a city.

Paralyzed with indecision and plauged with the knowledge that this choice will reverberate with every other me in the multiverse, I noticed my hands finally stopped shaking.

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