I felt like a Story.

Her camera lay gently across her fingers, pressing ridges into her limp palm. Tonight, as on many other occasions, Mica was reminded of the evenings as they gently passed, in and out like a fleeting thought across canvas. Before she was rested, the morning sun rose to insist on her perpendicular motions; 'move and be moving' was all the sun would say. Sometimes she let the ebb and flow of the days go like liquid through her hands, allowing herself a transient state of mind. Never sedentary, Mica struggled to find the perception of life that would not weigh her down.

Sometimes she paced the streets, looking for nothing in particular- she liked the shadows in the people's faces, how there was rarely enough light to reveal their grotesque smiles that were always hidden, as though their secrets might be revealed in a small gesture. Mica had just returned from a walk to her favorite house on the only hill in town. There were figurines made of anything and everything strewn across the yard, an army of miss-matched junk. They reminded her of the stock-yard behind the house where she grew up. At the gate of the house, Mica had snapped a photo of the aging red front door, from an angle she had never captured. One photo was all the proof of her existence tonight.

It came as no surprise to find that they were always right; the changing of the season tells of life and death- endless cycles, endless roads. Why had this become her obsession? She sighed and felt the summer breeze across her face, as if it were telling her the same. But she felt another whisper behind the wind: it told her she was free of all expectations, free to wander forever. Or at least she liked to think so. Life was catching up with Mica- she found that she reveled in a stolen moment as though it would be the last in which she was the true writer of her own story. Why had she left everything to find a new life in Boston? It was barely a regret now but rather a fact that was grudgingly accepted.
The events of the previous day unfolded before her, words and wanderings now distant memories; the cup of coffee, the bright yellow scarf, the smiling young man who had insisted on helping move the sofa out of ........................