I am afraid of permanence.
I crave the sort of transience of the evening sun slowly setting over the mirador in the West–its soft golden glow tracing each ancient ivory brick, completely covered by warmth and green overgrowth.
Birds begin to retreat to the trees, leaving only white and grey moths to roam the skies, their delicate wings fluttering in the wind.
It feels, sedulous, here. Every passing thought controlled and analyzed. I am control.
Along the mirador a thin creek flows, separating the ochre field from all of the pavement, mortar, and ingenuity.
I hop across the small stream with ease, suddenly feeling consumed with the sovereignty of the landscape before me–it
is as if I have been trapped inside of my own mind for so long, and now I am free.