GraVity'S wiNgS

The world is dying but now I’m writing

Writing
because it seems the last way I know how to hold it
Even though these words don’t even have the eternity that ink half-promises; no matter

To write is to dream hope-prints on to a page...

& if I dream of a world of pirates and seashell ships and rain in the afternoon and honey and flying and nests of cuddling moss, peaty and muddy green-glowing....it's realer than real.

It's a choice....so

If I choose to fly with the way I am feeling, with the colors I’m seeing behind my eyes and with the tastes that stick to my budding tongue in their curious bitter-brightness, does that really mean that’s the way IT is?

Sweet contentment lies in the ability not to dream-out reality but to see the dream within it, and in having the trust to believe it.

Without imagination I am nothing, and the world is cardboard flat and saccharin empty…

I sprawl on the quilted covers and dance on the ceiling and swing among the rafters.

Gravity only pulls because it’s heartbreakingly lonely.
So when I try to fly, why don’t I?

I am the slave-bride of Gravity; I can’t love him because he binds me to the rock solidity, but he won’t release his hold until he feels love,

so we are whirlpooled

until
I decide I can love his limitations, and wear them as wings

Dancing Soaring Singing all the forms of flight I can own in this atmosphere—all the more precious because they defy laws and breathe magic.


Gravity
You bring the miraculous smile to my body’s narrow curves; sparkle to my muscles; fire to my eyes…

It’s because of you that I know this exhilaration; you make me earn it.

And so I believe that the world is dying only because I let it mirror my own face and its failings which are only real until I choose to engage, actively, give energy to dreaming a smile and reimagining gravity's pull.