Paradise

It's not as if paradise is really paradise. Montezuma's revenge threatens and the fishy smell of dried sea shells still fills the hotel room. The willowy grasp of the internet's prolonged fingers tugs at the tails of my bathing suite even as I dive under the surface and hide form the tropical sun.

We are creatures of habit. Drastically changing the settings does nothing to alter the internal milieu. But time has a way of becoming less fluid. The wrist watch is discraded and the awareness of date and day dissapear.

There is no beeper buzzing and vibrating on my belt loop. Fifteen minute appointments are replaced by meandering afternoons on lazy beach chairs. Nobody is looking for me.

Nobody is calling my name