Impatience eats me up like fire. It controls me, fixating in my limbs like a fruit fly you can only spray organically, because, well, you don’t want to ingest the pesticide. I can feel it in every tense movement. The adrenaline of desire flits around my nerves and carves up the space between my shoulder blades. My temples tingle with the impossible thought that I can fix whatever it is, I can right it, if only I could force it to be the way I want it to be, I could untangle and push through the roof of dead leaves that block my vision.
Honestly, I just can’t help it sometimes. It seems like I literally walk past the realm of my ability to see things logically. And once I get to that side of reasoning, I get lost in myself, and that’s it.
However, that’s not why I started this post. I actually started this two weeks ago, but since then, I haven’t been able to complete a personal thought and tease it along to a satisfactory ending. My brain broke with a sore throat, sinus pressure, and a cough, and unfortunately, I still haven’t quite got it back yet.
But yes, I’m impatient. It’s a vice, but I kind of like it. It breeds this need to act inside of me, and that’s what it takes to feel alive: Movement in any direction but stagnation.
I can’t quite pinpoint what is bothering me this time, I just know it’s there, and I want to root it out and envelop it with my insatiable need to self-reflect. It’s tickling my neck hairs, but I haven’t seen it take form yet.
All I know is it’s closest to me when I leave my home for someplace else.
The Elfin Forest is a village of pygmy oak trees with sagebrush villas. A wooden boardwalk snakes between neighborhoods, often moving between sandy steps and clunky ones. Trespassing from plank to plank, slatted sunlight plays with shadows that streak between the green moss that hangs from branches and the naked bark-covered sticks that push toward the sky.
And well, the Saturday I walked through the Elfin Forest, I slipped on hippy grease and fell into its magic mantra with gusto. It feels good, no matter what the casual judgmental feeling about that state of mind is, and it’s hard not to play the part when you feel small like the short oak trees that gnarl into canopies just inches above your head. Peaceful and quiet, it’s another place that’s easy for me to get lost inside myself, until the wind calls upon itself to rustle leaves at my ears’ level into shouting the existence of the rest of the world. Until the squished canopy of elfdom breaks into the Pacific Ocean, which is beyond the estuary of water, birds, and sunken vegetation that paints the space between Morro Bay and Los Osos.