The Earth Breathed

The scent of the pines trees. It intoxicates me with a smell that never sleeps. Except in winter.

It’s been raining for days.

And I don’t mind it.

The ground is wet and there is mud between the blades of grass.

And I don’t mind it.

I take off my shoes and dig my toes into the earth. The way my ancestors did.

I wish I knew what it feels like to play with clay. Not the clay we find at a shop, but the clay that has worms crawling through it. Making it alive. That clay. I want to mush it with my hands and then my feet. And then, smell the earth. The way my ancestors probably did.

A friend told me that if I walk barefooted, I give all my static electricity to the ground. I wonder if it isn’t the other way around. I mean, I think the earth gave me a shock as I let my feet sink into its coolness.

As I approached a sidewalk, I put my shoes back on. To appear “civilized”. So I sank my muddy feet into my new shoes. As I walked, my feet made absurd sounds the entire way–in protest.

I never thought I would actually mind my shoes. I didn’t want them anymore.

For a moment, my feet breathed along with the earth that swallowed the heavy rain.

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