My chest hurts. Right in the hollow where my heart used to be. I’ve stuffed it with cotton batting to keep my shape somewhat humanoid. I slowly turn my attention to the clock on the wall it is 1:56 and I know I've been here before. Its kind of like déjà-vu, only with fewer commercials. I am constantly amused by the trivialities of form. As if the difference between regular and bold roast is in something other than choice. As if anything ever is. My chest hurts. Breathe in and ignore it. It is like anything else in this life, ephemeral, and must either be over come or integrated. I am more than this hardware or its components. I cannot accept the idea that I am not more than my software, it is all that I have been given to work with, and I am doing damn well if I do say so myself. My gods, I am bored. Day in and day out is another distraction from the ounce of truth. I’ve got-ten so used to the changing of seasons I have slowly forgotten that life is simply that, Change. I have decided to refuse to be stagnant. The hanged man is no longer self serving. Is that even possible that he ever was? I had never been Lord of the gallows pole, but last time I checked, the biggest sacrifice you can ever make is the sacrifice of the self to the SELF. Maybe all that time hanging by my ankles has served me better than I knew. For I am and will be ever, and to feel pain is to feel something, so I'm sure I am in life or something like it. "Cogito ergo sum" I think.... Therefore I know... Nothing. Knowl-edge and experience are seemingly separate from thought. When have you learned anything by only thinking about it? Since when was some-thing ever really better than nothing, when you know in the hollow where your heart used to be that you are only settling? For less? Why accept a life of mediocrity when your DNA tells you that you just like every other being of flesh embodied are meant for something? Maybe even something more? Is the pain distracting? There is an op-tion. Go back to sleep. This was all a dream. Life is as they tell you, sadness and despair and longing, and sorrow. Oh Maya, lovely and inconstant. If there were no pain would I even understand joy?
I really aught to be more careful the next time I stare into the sun. I burned off way too many layers to be able to see what is called “clearly” anymore. I was taken in by his warmth. He says he wants to be my one and only one, but I know it’s only fantasy. He's never been with a girl before, and who am I to be his first? I shrug my shoul-ders because the wings I was given are making them uncomfortable. Do they make you uncomfortable too, or are you in denial of their exis-tence just as I am every other Thursday, and sometimes, on Sundays?
They (the wings) lie much deeper under my skin then. I remember when I was a child and I believed I could control the wind. When I was a child again, I made my first clouds disappear. Oh, to be that child again. Do you think she would remember me if I told her my name one more time, even though I've told her it multiple times? Maybe I speak a different language than I used to. Maybe I am at the ruins of the blasted tower of Babel. Maybe she doesn't remember me by that name because the name is not mine, and that idea has never occurred to me before. I do recall many cultures believe in the power of names, and I frequently change mine, but sometimes I forget one, or the other, and it’s not like they go away… they become layers.
The sun is setting. I see the light filtering through the trees and I feel at rest from being wound up about being,. When it rises again I'm sure I'll forget about why my mother always told me not to stare. For as the moth is drawn to a flame, seeing only beauty, or having some instinctual reaction disguised as religious experience, I will always return... for I am lost without his light.