Something like storm clouds have been hanging about the corners of rooms and the edges of ceilings these days. When I go outside, the feeling of their weight becomes less — but I do not forget. Mist and fog and the damp spring ground only do so much to pull me away, back to myself, back to the bed of reality.
But within buildings and structures, those clouds still hang and as a citizen of the world, I am obligated to oblige them by oft being indoors. A member of society. A name on a record somewhere that proves I am contractually obligated to things I did not establish, did not agree to, perhaps do not want.
There is no consent or volition in the contracting out of one’s will to live.
A fire made by my own hands and food scorched by that very fire might help to alleviate some of this suffering. A bed made of rocks and sticks and bones. A drum and a found feather placed in my hair and the rattling of the shore being lapped by salt water.
And to leave behind these clouds to rain their ash down without my head hanging about — that might be a viable solution. Who, if anyone, is willing to go?
Oh, that’s right. As outlier, you accept going alone.
As the crow and the raptor flies.
Soon, I will spread wings instead of soothing butter on complacent bread.