I close my eyes:
"I am a seagull", I whisper.
If I were a seagull I'd flap away to a distant shore,
I'd find the place where the air is cool,
the colors sharp,
the sounds gone.
All sounds, gone -- but the rhythmic cadence of the waves,
an occasional murmur of the wind,
and my heart beat.
I don't know if I'd move.
I would look up to the sky and contemplate the clouds,
I'd flutter my eyelashes with ease as they stroll by.
The noise of a car,
The loud uproar of a truck,
The dinging of my phone (of some group chat I foolishly belong to),
brings me back.
"You're not invited", I whisper.
The city overwhelms me,
it depletes me.
It wants to touch me,
but I don't want to be touched.
Conversations bore me.
I'm impatient,
I'm restless,
There's got to be an emergency exit.
So much excess,
surplus,
gluttony,
extra,
too much.
"I am a seagull."
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