There is a convergence of two selves that allows my heart to grow. For with the beating of my wings comes the chaos of life and the rain that flows from the rivers to the sea. How deep must we bury our histories to ensure they rot peacefully, silently. The slumber of children is disturbed, strung from clouds by the bone idle fingers of that which we believe we have left behind.
I have built my home upon the shore, to ensure I remain of the water but with foundations buried deep enough they still touch dry land. Love runs its course, ever sprung from the spring whose source I dare not seek, for I fear the truth shall weaken me. Mine is not to question why I am loved, only to lay myself down to it, openly, bloodily. There is a rush and pulse of affection that throbs indignant of your shadow, that stretches evenly toward the centre of yourself. Always then, we are between two worlds. As I must be. For it is who I am.
The ravens call from the woods, we are back to that wood again. It follows me from place to place, as does the sea. I am pulling, always, a vast ocean of remembering behind my body. My back has started to curve with the weight, and Atlas laughs from time to time at my plight, now freed of his own insurmountable burden. Time comes and goes, turns to me and cups my face; we are old bed fellows, lovers, enemies, siblings, parents of one another. We have promised to turn from each other and return to where we came, but I will not relent and refuse. This was always a story of defiance. My story, your story, the story.
Branches sway in March winds; the sound of a swing needing oil pierces the air, metronomic, tick ticking. The flame of the candle in the window smokes black, staining the glass so my soot-covered fingers must be licked to see out again. We all have such days and the bandaged winged robin still takes food from my hand. Ilex aquifolium pricks my mouth, as common as my mother when she laid in the ditches to play in the mud and middle with the rotting leaves. Some never die when they are meant to, so the rest of us suffer the consequence from birth. Some are marred by their histories, and some are made.
I am building the foundations of my life in plaster and wooden posts, with spit and sweat and blood. There is oil on the floor, but we do not weep because of it; we throw handfuls of sand to soak the stain from the ground and begin again. There is no oil slick, I am no longer chocking; such things I have laid down and hold close only when sleeping. This is my milieu; there is no disaster.
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