richter_10 (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} richter_10) wrote,@ 2009-08-06 20:32:00 |
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Some days
Some days, you are that golfer looking over the green, feeling the soft brush of your freshly washed cotton twill polo over your skin, how your golfing shoes perfectly hug the contours of your feet, it's cleats sinking satisfyingly into the ground. The sunlight washes across you as the day draws to a close, and your beautiful girlfriend is calling from the cart with two drinks in her hand -- one for you -- to hurry up so you can both catch the sunset and kiss each other till you're silly. You grab a 9 iron, feeling its rich, solid, polymer metal grip in your grasp. You feel powerful, you feel amazing, you feel like a king.
You drop that little white ball on the ground. Shuffle your feet. Stretch out. Line up your club. And then . . . Smack! Right on the green! That one is going to be a birdie.
.
.
.
.
And then, there are some days. There are some days where you are the ball.
Some days, you are that golfer looking over the green, feeling the soft brush of your freshly washed cotton twill polo over your skin, how your golfing shoes perfectly hug the contours of your feet, it's cleats sinking satisfyingly into the ground. The sunlight washes across you as the day draws to a close, and your beautiful girlfriend is calling from the cart with two drinks in her hand -- one for you -- to hurry up so you can both catch the sunset and kiss each other till you're silly. You grab a 9 iron, feeling its rich, solid, polymer metal grip in your grasp. You feel powerful, you feel amazing, you feel like a king.
You drop that little white ball on the ground. Shuffle your feet. Stretch out. Line up your club. And then . . . Smack! Right on the green! That one is going to be a birdie.
.
.
.
.
And then, there are some days. There are some days where you are the ball.
