Around at four years. Locked away, it was pleasant, being helpless. A soft green glow of a parent in mist.
Crys of muffled joy swim within the murky consciousness mixing with the lack of friction on the backside, down the swirly slope then back again.
Swooshiness.
"Again and again!" Was those words? Can't get it out of my head.
Down the slide, down the treadmill, and down went the memory. All tucked in together in a toddlers red jacket. Trees and birds chirping.
It haunts, no, simply sticks at moments of déjà vu. Down and up at moments of public consciousness. Fleeting ethereal happiness.