Prongs

It came upon a midnight clear, antlers proud and cloven feet dancing.  Pulling my spirit along so that it too could dance the jitterbug.

They say that every person has a spirit, an animal guardian of sorts.  Prodding us forward.

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Authored

Written down.  Are definitions.  Self-definitions.  Self-revelations, defined.

Lines drawn.  Shapes formed words, speaking, narrating the story into my life.  Am I the author?  Who pens my tale?  Flips the pages, puts black on white, words to text, text to life, life in pages bound, and out again into the wide wild world.

Monday morning, I awoke.  Took a step from half-slumber’s warmth into the cold.  Being free.

Sunday night, I wrote.  Words that flowed from my mind.  Random pages flipped through, specifics catching by trailing fingertips.  Digressions, introspections, suppositions.

Sound Check

Sound check.  1.  2.  3.

Volume adjust.  Add filter(s).

‘Til it settles down.  ‘Til you can hear yourself.  In the fray, still be yourself.  Not caught up in the mess of everyone else.  No bandwagon for you.

Be your own person, that is what they say.  Think for yourself.

Noise control.  Filtered chaos.  Simplify.

Recurse.  Until you get to the base case.  Until you have an array of one, index of zero.

Until you are alone, even in a crowd.  Being yourself.

Floating in amniotic fluid, suspended from the noise, the dirtiness that comes of contacting the outside.  Ignore the noise.

Disassociation.  So that the judgements of others do not override your own.

Sound check.  1.  2.  3.

Can you hear me?  Check.  Check check.

Sky High

From great heights, I take a breath.  Deep, the frigid air enters.  Chilling from the inside out.

Blue is the scenario before me.  The scenery cast in the early morning tempers of the sky giant slumbering awake.  Frosty clouds rolling not so far away, his breath drawing mine out.  Like I am caught upon a thread, white floating out.  Warmth drawn in three dimensions, taking shape in space, evidence of my small place in existence.  And I a speck, so small, an ant would be a monster.  A behemoth of the proportions of a large hill or a small mountain, threatening to crush me unnoticed underneath.

Blue is my lungs, calling out for air.  Purple veins draining oxygen further down and deeper in.  Purple veins draining precious oxygen from the thin air.  Briefly redder then blue then red again then blue.  Fluctuating about a purple hue.  Just barely enough.  To get by.

Blue is my heart.  Caught, now hiding.  Red welts puckering the flesh of the organ where once it had been cut, slashed in ribbons, and bleeding out, frozen.  Waiting.

Blue is the light, waves scattering above.  Randomness generating the orderly procession of colors filtering out along the horizon.

From such great heights.  Cassini flies.

Above the theys and the thems.  The mes and Is, without a care for the yous and whos and whatsitsfaces.  She spreads her wings and I watch her glide.

Pull in.  Tighter, closer.  Pull in.  Downwards, inwards.  For you will get hurt.

Don’t fly so high.  That is what I think, for myself, but oh do I love the flight.  The soaring, banked curves, close calls but no danger.  Because I am good.  Splendid.  Glorious.  No fear.  The thrill of the wind, your hair standing on end as everything rushes on by, blurring kaleidoscopes into a messy hue with the best auto-focused by adrenaline-powered sharpened sights and heightened wits.  Stone ruins by the cliff, ivy growing in creeping tendrils, green against gray.  Red tailed hawk come home to roost, three beaks chirping to have their tiny tummies filled.

Pull in.  Tighter now.  Closer in, further down.  For you will bleed.

And I cannot bear.  To see your still form, splattered body against the hard canvass.  Some ledge of rock, pine dotted turf, some path they walk, some place no one ventures.  Because I cannot bear to feel.  To be immobilized by the potential something, the potential failure.  The crash that may come and probably will.  And yet, your flight is glorious and I cannot tear my eyes from your form.

An aphrodisiac.  The unpredictability, the potential for something larger, greater, more.  Enthralling, thrilling, tantalizing.  And my frozen heart quavers.  Half-wishing to be in flight.  To soar alongside, to share in this blue world.

Pull in.  Closer.  Further.

My hand half-moves.  Mind still disconnected from the body.  Reaching to grasp ahold of your feathers, your trailing cape.  Red tipped tail waving hello.  Join me, Cassini waves.  And for a moment I recall those times.  The so-called better ones, when I too soared.  And before my mind can catch myself, I remember.  Joined in flight, soaring.  I remember.

The hunk of half-reaching blue diminishing to the stature of an ant, then to that if a neighboring giant were an ant crawling beneath giants.  And it is as if the world was mine.  Yours now.  I watch.  Blue blue world.  Half a hope, caught in my throat.  I can barely breath.  My body frozen.  I am gasping.  Waiting.

Day breaks.  Haze lifts.  The blue bleached by bright lights, I forget my shortness of breath.  And that Cassini flies.