Remembering Sunday

It wasn't blowing, the wind, it wasn't blowing. Like heavy yellow hay my hair hung on my zebra-printed shoulders; still it sat in the absence of wind. I so badly wanted them to carry me away, the soles of my shoes, but they would be lost, I know. Wishing I wanted to soar above the clouds, like Aladdin and his multi-colored shag, I merely looked longingly at the tunnel across the road. I knew oh-so-well where it went, I followed it twice a week to a class that I loathed, but still it sat beckoning me.

So I sat.

I scrolled through random ring tones on my phone. I can only take so much Grace Kelly informing me of a call on my little electric passport to the world. Still I scrolled with so much pressure to find the song, the one fifteen-second arrangement that would explain my life; a bone-on-the-end-of-a-fishing-pole-type task, I will not be satisfied -ever.

Still it sat; the tunnel across the road.

Nine-fifteen the final five belonged to me, but for the moment I searched the archives of Verizon for a voice for my small shiny companion. The tunnels is daunting, calling. Darkness. Underground. Alone. Sitting vacant is the tunnel. I will not be a light under a basket or buried alive by fear, I will not be alone. Alone. It has never passed and will never come.

Knowing this, I stir, I will not sit still.