I’m feeling creatively stifled, but, in a rare practice of self-discipline, here I am. They say to write what you know, so I’m going to write about the sand that has taken up residence inside me. It’s been sneaking in slowly, filling up the cracks in my skin, grain by grain. I try hard to keep those tiny fissures open just in case a little ray of inspiration wants to wiggle its way through. I do handstands to shake the dust loose. But not today. Today the cracks are stuffed full.
The little construction workers who live in my belly are trying to smash open the windows of their home. They’re chipping away with tiny pick axes, covering their tiny heads with tiny yellow helmets. They’re singing miner tunes and eating lunch from tiny buckets on their union-mandated breaks.
But sand is persistence. It hides under the mats in your car and inside the seams of your swimsuit. It flies through the sky, invisible until it finds its way into your eye. You think it’s just breeze and up comes a storm.
If I can’t shake it loose, I’ll have to wait it out. Eventually, lightening will strike and it’ll all turn to glass. Or the construction workers will finally buck up and get the job done. Either way.