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It feels as if I’m slightly floating.
No, I’m definitely floating.
Your right hand is on my tailbone, and I’m floating on saltwater

like the water in the dead ocean in Egypt.

The dead ocean is in Egypt, right?
Anyways, we’re not really in Egypt, are we?
Because it feels like I’m drowning here.
Your left hand constricted around my neck,

maybe I’m just suffocating.

The sun is hitting my eyes,

and even though the walk is only a couple of meters from our car,

towards the currently unknown destination,

it feels like I’m reliving my life in scenes.

I can finally understand that one scene from the movie Gladiator

The scene where Russel Crowe hovers above the ground

and you can see the tall grass in the fields he’s soaring over.

At least I think it’s Russel Crowe,

anyways, some guy s definitely floating over some grass, I think.

Right now it’s me, just that the grass has to be liquid,

or a projection,or a hologram of some sort

because looking down it’s constantly changing textures.

From grist asphalt, to linoleum floor.

Suddenly I’m soaring over some stairs,

and the sun has been replaced with clinical white fluorescent tubes.

It hurts my eyes, and I wish I had sunglasses on.

The feeling of being carried as a grown man is so surreal.

I’m 7 years old again, but I’m just not 7 years old,

or, maybe you’re always the age that you’ve already been,

at some point again in your life.

Although I wouldn’t think now would be it,

I’m 17 years now, that’s 10 extra added years.

I’m sitting on my father’s shoulders, (or, really I’m in his arms)

and it feels like I never got off.

We’re in our garden, running around,

pretending like I’m a pilot sitting on his shoulders or something.

But, we never did that I think, but right now I am.

I’ve floated away from my home, and I’ll continue to drift away.

But no matter how old I will get, I will still be right fucking there.

In his bed, or in my bed, or in my parents bed.

At the school prom, or when I ditched the next school prom,

but never on that specific grass patch, or the asphalt

or the concrete, or on the linoleum floor.

But, maybe in my fathers arms. 

Even though I don’t have the same touch from them,

that I didn’t have, from the other things I didn’t touch.

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