Dove flight

The little dove, rescued in a pre-dawn hour, would not take flight on the upswing of my releasing hands. She sailed down to the grass with a thud, and after a moment of sickening pity, took to her wings with a familiar pulsing call, and disappeared into the night. How similar I feel to this poor creature, rejecting aid from fright, hitting bottom on her own, to erupt into flight on her own.

It’s scary, really, the thought of actually changing oneself, of permanently setting aside those dark little friends that have been made from my faults. A fear maybe of the vacuum that threatens to open up? Or of no longer knowing myself after so long a study in hurt feelings. Despair is like a tumbling shoal of rocks, new worry and strife taking up the breakneck pace of the pebbles first set into motion. The avalanche has been let loose, and although I deeply recognize the its futility and meaninglessness, the thought, the feelings, like a great descending swarm of birds, or a familiar heroically bombastic aria drowns out sensible feelings and living.

I would go to sleep, but there always seems to be a tractor running at such times, and this is most genuinely a blessing.