Mountain Clams

I don't even know what to call this

Walking on the ground, it is always so close. When perchance you find the wings to fly, the ground disappears. If your wings fail you, you want the ground beneath you again, but the distance between you has grown so much since last you took notice. The fall is instantaneous. There is no time to recognize the ground's absence, and there is no terminal velocity for the spirit. But there is still the impact. Poor, fragile spirit. Soaring one moment, shattered on the ground the next. A million tiny pieces scatter impossibly far away, out of reach. You feel as though you can't go on until the pieces find their way back. Some pieces never will. Those that do return come together creating a new mosaic. It is you, but it is different. Some gaps will fill in over time. The rest will whistle and moan in the wind you create when you fly again, until you can no longer hear them.

Labels: life

posted by Brett @ 1:23 AM