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The closest I can get is water

The wingless state I went to sleep in last night and the wings I wake up in this morning are both true.

I host parties and forget who I am supposed to be for the others. I can't keep up. I can't remember who or how I am expected me to be. It's exhausting. I keep changing. Every so often I catch them looking at me as if they are not convinced. Neither am I.

I look up and climb through a hole in the trampled ground above. The hole opens up to the vasty sky, and here at the entrance we jostle for position to get the best view. The attendants keep reminding us to wait. "Wait" they say. "Too much damp water-logged fog. Wings would stick shut in this stuff." I try to do as they say and wait, gathering my want. Cats cradling it up in my fidgety limbs. They ache. I ache ...for sky? No, not just sky. I ache a home sick, love sick ache. I don't know why and for what. I sometimes wonder whether such a home sick love sickness can be soothed. I find the closest I can get is water.

I leap.

I leap up into the home sick love sick sky. I call it home, I call it my love.


The knowing in the body = feeling?

Bachelard said about tears as "thoughts made matter".

Thoughts become feelings and these feelings they twitch in my body by themselves as if they are twitching me.


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