I seem to be twisted these days. Past and present reaching toward or away from each other around my spine. Masculine and Feminine contorting, bracing, clenching, pulling – fascia forming, hardening, internal calluses turning flow to stagnation.
To soreness.
To stillness.
Not stillness – to stuckness.
The pterodactyl shoulder blades off-center – off-balance. If I was to fly it might be in circles – or with effort. The right wing flapping heavily up – the left attempting to mimic, to mirror, yet the reach is half-stretched, half-lengthened, wound taught. Caught. Dragged down. These tiny kites of attentions have wrapped themselves around my left back wing – confining it to small, useless movements. The movements made to waste energy. The movements made for exertion – where excess exertion quickly turns to exhaustion.
They have thrown these rocks on strings up to capture me – these boulders – I flap with my free wing. I call out.
Which is worse? Quitting? Giving up? Or tearing away from my left side body. Can I survive without my left wing? Is it too close to my heart? Depending where it tears, will they keep my heart with it? Will it fall to the ground attached to my left wing?
That is not the option. I fly towards them – they scream in shock and horror – the ropes are loose now, tangled. There is chaos on the ground – I squawk – breathe fire – blow them away.
And fly off – boulders dropping one-by-one into the ocean.
where rivers are born 