As the steam lifts off my reveled back, gathering a chill from the stray drips that the towel missed, I slouch; feeling every bone creak and the muscles from the tips of my fingers to my eyelids to the will to keep positioned upright. I think about the day having trouble with what happened. Nothing of importance, but everything a new territory. Line by line I try so desperately to return to the work I return to in my free time. Yet line by line I drift off the edges of the pages, into the world of late spring, year round. Where light bounces off every surface, illuminating the naked feet slapping against exposed dirt and the unstoppable spirits. "Come to Me" i whisper "join me in the forest". My heavy eyelids open and I am back again the the aches, that my smile seems to attribute to my journey to the place of magic.

I often wonder if I am the hero of my story. I wonder what being the hero actually means. I wonder even, am I writing my story? Well If I am not; will the author please give me a view of the sea, an occasional lazy sunday, and stories of travel and adventure to dazzle me to sleep at night. And please if I am the hero, write me like a classic.  

It's days like today, when I feel busy, and lazy, and stressed that I take a moment to breathe in knowledge, family, and your blue eyes so that I feel better than the moments preceding.

I feel like the groove of a train track and the passengers all at the same time.