Another metaphor for loss

So, I’m supposed to just ride this storm out, right? Keep telling myself it will pass, blow over, mellow out, calm down. That the sea won’t really drown me, not this time. Right?

Save for this time, I’m cast out on a line that has no tether to the greater boat.
Sent out on the waves on this little skiff, trying desperately to just stay upright.

And the winds are blowing stronger every moment, and they are most assuredly blowing against me.

I was trying to follow it, flow with it, go with it. Be a spirit on the cusp of it. A wing on the edge of it. A salt spray bursting from it, every flowing, ever moving, ever free.

But when I look down, now, there’s all these chains all over me.
And no matter how hard I row, I can’t, I won’t break free.

It might be the end, and I can’t decide if it would change anything if I tried to tell myself that I could choose it any other way.

Back to the black

It seems I can only keep blogs under a certain mood, during a specific time in life. That time, that mood has always been darkness. All the black of midnight and a murder of crows.

The dove has nothing to do with this journey, it would seem. If only to be a white guide from it back into the light, if and then when it should come. Only as a flash in the corner of my eye, to disappear again then, into the realm where I have yet to pass through to. When it is near, I am far from here. When it is far from me, I always come back.

The death, the quiet, the winter, and the night. Moonlight always light this way as the only light in the sky. From time to time, a lone star might be guessed at, rarely seen. If ever.

Words, I have learned, are the only web that suspend me through the dark – the only wing I can take, the only flight I can find. A lyrical rising and falling, as if the words themselves were the wind and I – the bird, the black crow borne above on them. Dancing, crying, flowing with them where they will blow.

In the dark times, taking dark wing is the only wind I can find. The earth is dry and desolate and cold. Sun’s warmth can only reach me high, high up where it glints in eye and through cloud.

To be honest, though, I have never actually flown. All this happens in a dream that bears me from the nightmare of the ground, of the hole, of the cold cave I still am tied to sleep in, night after night. The dream of wing and warmth is the only hope and it has, ever before, carried me through.

Will it be enough this time? Will I, once and finally, learn to fly?
Or, will it not be enough this time? Will the dream fail, wing never come, and warmth fade away entirely into an endless, seamless grey? Has the dream only ever been the trick that forces me on forward into a night, into a dreariness, into a hopelessness I have never actually, never truly escaped?

Be it what it is. The dream and the wing will come again, and you will find me here.
Hiding in the black-blue feathers that are the only comfort I can find – far away and unreal as they are.

On, ever on into the night.
Maybe this time, on the other side of night, the dove – too – will be real.