The wave in his gut was induced by the elevation of the mountain. Unknown as it was.
We were up.
Beautiful! Look out at the vast expanse! Indulge!
That’s when a tsunami of bile overtook his insides and landed on the out.
The smell, the stench vile, ruined the backdrop beyond our four-door sedan causing the California dreaming to cease.
We were young. 8 and 7 respectively.
Too immature to understand the hardships detailing our caretaking, and the back-breaking middleclass burdens of our caretakers.
We were young. Yes.
And they were California dreaming.
After the illusions morphed into disillusions of the no-fucking-way variety, we regurgitated all of the family adventures of our youth and left in organized disarray.
We were two scattering roaches born of the same womb.
Expected to learn and absorb and thrive on the scraps of the impressions of something wholesome.
Expected to know so much.
And still, as adults, we know so little.
Every twenty-fourth hour that passes is another day stitched in a separate fabric of our function. Another conversational thread tied unto another story that furthers from the original weaving; a blanket constructed of hearts like dominoes, burned one by the other.
Infringed are the responsibilities leaving us to feast on fibers.
We were hurt.
But out of chaos was the birthing of the purest independence.
In quiet celebration of a distant God for the exclusivity of such freedom, but damned were we to the duality of this cursed existence. A bi-polar parallel.
Yet contradictions won’t inflict circumstances on bones. Etched only in skin is the experience. Like pretenses.
Never to be ignored though must be submerged in the dwelling underbelly of what it means to carry on.
If we. Are to speak.
If we. Are to breathe.
If we. Are to be unbroken.
The forward march movement of the one-foot-followed-by-the-other kind is set in motion to exhaust away the dirt covering the path of least resistance.