by A.R. Rivera
Super Slow-Mo
I’m inches from insanity by the time the sun finally decides to come up.
Time here definitely runs long. Way too long.
Yesterday feels like last week and there’s days of stubble on my jaw.
The last, small log goes on the fire for a long overdue breakfast. I scribble a bit on my notepad while waiting for the water to boil.
Day 2: It’s pretty here, but not enough to make me want to stay any longer than I have to.
Breakfast is a single packet of oatmeal I found swimming around in one of the outside pockets the bottom of my pack. The peaches and cream flavor tastes like childhood. They used to put more inside the pouches though.
After packing up camp, I take the time to stamp out the fire and cover the ashes with dirt. Then, tear down my shelter and scatter the branches enough so that anyone who might pass through won’t be able to tell I was here—not that I’ve seen any signs of people.
Heading south, my path runs along the widening stream.
Noon feels like evening and that makes me want to scream.
By the time the sun reads roughly one o’clock, I could easily drop into a heap for the next twelve hours. The expression brings images of Doyen; the way he looked as I leapt from the white room. And so I keep pushing.
Besides, I’m going to have to adjust to the time difference, if that’s possible.
