Teeter-tottering between utter indignance and the shallow waters of seemingly-ancient preoccupations. Preoccupations that held upright the clay to form the statue that I was. Eyes frozen in place, head never to tilt a degree lower. Now, all that’s left is cellophane snakeskin, first shedding between the cracks, now peeled off completely- with the satisfaction of removing a used up, scratched up sticker. New flesh glistens, pumping and fuelling, beating unusually. Fingers skim over this newly polished marble surface, and only once or twice have they delved under. Floating back up to the surface, it’s the feeling of having tasted a first time: unimaginable, frighteningly beautiful bliss, you never knew you could find even after multiple sunsets of digging. It’s the feeling of cracking a prepubescent book spine open, or the desperate inhale of air after having childishly timed how long your lungs could go without oxygen. Then your fingers slip out of these depths and return to longingly caressing the surface. You’re not sure how many more times this marble floor will open up for you to dive into, or whether, with the seasons passing and your exhale blowing like the wind will wear the layers out. But after that one glimpse, your motor’s running and you’re ready for more.