She felt as if she needed to pace.
Pace around the large square patch of shaded grass that she called her front yard.
She needed to walk heel to toe barefoot and feel the sea breeze wafting onto her skin.
She wanted it to blow away the old tapes in her head: fill them with salt until they could no longer wind but instead rust and fall.
She wanted the pacing to steady her heartbeat but not as much as she wanted it to fix something.
That something was too big and perhaps the problem was that she’d been pacing far too long.
She needed to run.
She needed to run so fast that the fear in her shadow would be lost in her tracks, kicked up in the dust.
She needed to run so fast that the goal couldn’t escape her or be at the edge of her fingertips.
It needed to be in her hand.
She needed to hold its tangible proof of her worthy existence.
She stopped pacing.
Looking out toward an ocean that made the world seem far too big for someone so small.
Yet it whispered on white wash, that in fact the world was too small for someone who wants to be so big.