2023, may 12, cammeraygal
when a. talks about ocean swimming, i feel every bit of it on my skin – the cold pinpricks, the muscles burning, the intense salt, and that incredible awe-striking moment of having conquered something intense. i can feel that after-swim moment when my skin, spurred by the sheer coldness, starts to warm up. it’s as if the cold itself ignites the warmth, making each tiny goosebump glow.
2023, february 19, cammeraygal
in the morning, i'm in bed, writing, blue sky crashing through the window, and the coffee‘s hotness seeping into every corner of my mouth. later, i squat down on the hiking trail, spread out my pink tunisian towel, and set up a quickie picnic on it. taking a bite from my grain-explosion bread, i see the hazelnut in it, cleanly sliced, looking professional and fitting effortlessly into the grain scene, its cut surface mirror-smooth. later, i run into a cave with lines of sandy hues, i caress them with my eyes. i step on climbing hooks on the rock, and z. extends his hand, pulling me up. i feel a burst of pink and bright blue, as my bikini and the sky shine into my eyes. in the evening, i'm in bed with happily sore feet, the hiking day lingering in my limbs, a yummily greasy pizza box on top of me, with a jalapeno peperoni pizza inside, my belly committed to a glorious feast of indulgence. z. is doing stretching exercises, and on netflix, a documentary is playing, about indian americans being masters of spelling bees.