The smell of this memory is not overwhelming. There is nothing too pungent-- foul or pleasant- that would evoke any emotional attachment. But sight--here, there is sensation. There is a palatable mood that is painted across my mind, attached to that day, clinging to the realities of the wood on that boardwalk.
Gray. Dull. Numbing sensationalism at my fingertips, to the farthest of my reach. A wingspan that yearns to rip my arms out of their sockets, if they could only reach just a little. farther.
My desire to see and grasp everything and absorb every moment is combatted by this grayness. This grayness that stunts human capacity and potential and enjoyment. It is interesting to see the patches of clouds that congregate to form such a mass of dull. It is a palate of gray, a diversity that contributes to just how intimidating that whole gray really is. Patches of lighter grays stick to a darker one. They haven't quite mixed yet and they probably never will. But the big landscape painted on the sky remains as overbearing as ever was.
It is powerful in its ability to stain the corridors of my memory, embroidering and overpowering the people and the faces, and the hands who made that day with me. I am erased from this, as I end up the shaving of a pink eraser that has done it's job, admirably.
My time in California was up. It bid me farewell without fanfare. No pomp and immense circumstance.
