Voorpret

They say our forefathers lived for the hunt: the quiet prowl through the rippling sunshine, the sprightly crepitation of twigs underfoot. Green smells and winter wind and tall oak trees and daisies drooping quietly by the brookside. The jugular, arterial thrill of looking out over the rolling plains. 

Perhaps this feeling is primordial—this inexplicable, flabbergasting swell in the chest. I can’t help but recall the boarding passes pressed into my palm at age six, plane tickets to a land I scarcely knew, a new place to call home.

Sitting quietly in the plane, holding my body tightly within its stillness. The feeling of an unknown future reeling through my head, unwinding itself, unmaking itself. I keep still and feel the sickly sweet aching drip along the walls of my heart, time inching forward slickly like the same drip, drip, drip of butter-sunshine through leaves: lifted upward into the promise of that which could happen.

-Vertigo Editors 19-20