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Fallen

Thats not sunshine
Or is it?

In my favourite sweater, I’m falling down a hole

An abyss

Is that the roaring of the ocean I hear?
I can’t tell because I can’t smell

I’m in free fall

I see sweet silent sights of the past against the clutching fall

I feel the fall

I think nothing-havoc pushes through the stem of my brain

And my blood, gravity grasps my blood and my grace

Fast and free

I am fallen.

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A secret

I never finished the story about why I have a clearly visible and secretly apparent fear of birds.
No. It is not because Hitchcock made a hallowing impact on my mindful stagnancy, with his film Birds.

On a gloomy day, picture this, you are seated on the cold ground. The ground- down below, and above you, separate from mortal coexistence is the sky. The grave, vast cover that patterns your every day. Today the sky is gloomy. And in this gloomy, grey, desperate plane, you spot a lone ranger.
You don’t quite know yet who she is or what his directional eyes see. That bird, anonymous, silent yet distinct, has now grabbed you- all of you- your attention and your vision and your immediate reality. For those lingering, measurable seconds all your focus is on a creature, a being much different from your own body and intellect, but one that instills a halt to the incessant, constant thought-chatter at the back of your brain, with its glorious flight that darkens the underside of the sky with inaudible leveled flaps of its wings. They have taken over all of your human attention and have left you vulnerable for fragile, long, crying seconds. Your mind and your human have been lifted and grabbed and then graciously granted a shy part of life in free flight across the universe we only permeate with our bare vision.

That is why I have a strange and open fear of the ones that fly. Because, I am grounded to my feet and know not of a reality of the winged and I shall not feel drenched in constant leakage of inhibitions and will never drown with the rolling, roaring, ruptured waves of freedom.

I who?

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He sits on the mat of familiarity with a shy book in his hand
The windows separate the inside from outside
While the portal that hangs above him changes form, shape and reality that the ticking of seconds define in backdrop.

Findings just became strange
My existence lurks in the corners of my vision
The wall that I rest my spine on is bricks broken by ripples of conscious rain.

July ’14