Attempt not to Vomit

The feel of grass is where it starts. I know the feel of the meshed green blades yielding under bare foot, the tickle of stray strands across an ankle, and the soft squeaking sound as a sole stretches to step. A curled toe meets earth for just a second, and I realise that I’m somehow mesmerised by the texture of it.

Something about the feel of the grass against my feet, the licking of the dewdropped blades against my ankles captivates me, and I stand stock still and stupefied by the strangeness of the circumstance. So I struggle, in a stifled sort of style, and strive reeling to stem the surfeit of feeling from my feet.

Steel myself, strain to slip from the thin green mesh and, as I do, I feel the cool evening air on the bare skin of my arms, the white of a rainy summer. Green tips rake gently across the callused soles of both feet as I step forward, each step a little lighter than the last.

There is no running, no reaching, no real feel at all. It struck me that, if this were flight, it seemed a sudden and simple thing.

Just as gravity’s hold breaks, I blink myself awake.

Earthbound.