This is just portrait prose, putting a moment's reflection into words. Any comments appreciated.
I walk through history: Cretaceous, Jurassic, the Elder Trias. Each step opens pages. Each step overflows with knowledge and facts. I know those layers, intimately, but in a sterile way. I never stopped to feel them, to taste them, to rub my hardness against them. If I ever raped them, it was dryly, intellectually, ineffectively.
Yet somewhere in my animal brain, I know them in another way. Salty taste of water-borne minerals. Starlight glittering off facets and the way the rock throws out the heat at the end of the day. I know the intimacy of blood seeping into stone and the laboured crush and meld of fleeting surface lives.
And now, with time and distance between us I bring the knowings together and try to tell you, try to make you feel the warmth of river sand between toes, and how your body will f*** the rock if you let it. But you're not there yet. Your quick mind is still fascinated by the letters on the page, and the images reflected into your eyes. You're just not there yet.