Once a month I post a micro story (a story that is 1,000 words or less).
I’m standing at the edge. The waves are crashing around the weakening barrier around me. The edge is the line in the sand where my sanity resides. The waves: this assignment notification, that frantic email, pings, pongs, dings, dongs. Stop calling me. Stop texting me. I just want to sleep. I just want to be.
But I invited the waves to my beach, seeking them out, hustling for them, praying for them, longing for them. I was so sure I could stay on top of them, rather than wipe out repeatedly under their sheer force. I just want them to recede a little, so I can remember what being still actually feels like: to soak rather than sink, to submerge rather than drown.