Against the World

Sometimes, I resent the world for spinning.

I look around and I see people getting dizzy, falling down, and being crushed. I see them tumbling into the valleys so they can’t see over the mountains anymore, arms reaching up as the clouds move over them and plates shift under them.

With an ear to the ground, I can hear all the heartbeats, speeding up and slowing down, and so I plant my feet in the sand and push back against the mountains. I turn around and put my back into it, feet slipping in the dust.

“Can’t you see us?” I yell up into the sky, unable to keep my footing. “Can’t you see what’s happening?”

But the earth’s slow spin stays painfully consistent, like a low note vibrating under an orchestra that’s never played together before.

So I dig in harder, rocks against my back, sweat, tears, and sand making their design on my face. And, though there’s beauty that’s been placed all around me, I hate the rocks and the plates and the clouds, the grass that grows up and over everything that remains still, the wind and the sun whispering in conspiracy.

I turn to face the rocks that make up the mountain, wondering whether they’re innocent, trying to see that beauty. And then I tuck my shoulder, lower my head, and ram the mountain with everything I have, over and over, taking on an eerie rhythm that fits right in with rest of nature. And the mountains and the grass and the sun and the wind seem pleased as I look back over my shoulder into the valley for any sort of movement.