*knocks on the glass window*  

hello??  

*rubs frost-glow from before my lips, breathing*

 

i don't suppose anyone is still here  

are you?  

in either case, i've missed you.  

To say that I'm okay is truer than my feelings (which suggest much worse). I'm impatient with progress: even if I feel things are going well, there's that constant nagging, "shouldn't everything be just a bit better?" Which isn't always how I feel. Sometimes I realize that this--being alive at any present moment--is the greener grass. But circumstance or some other higher Providence seems to decide when and by what means those pleasant-and-comfort-bringing feelings arise.....so, even if they're not here now, those feelings or confidence and hope: they'll come again. I can surmise faithfully, and in the meantime we must needs stay bundled against all this cold wind.  

And actually I hate politeness right now; I am loath to say what is right and soft and kind and acceptable. The truth is: I'm horrified, more than just terribly frightened, I am terrified: of global warming, of my inability to take care of myself financially, of my inability to follow through, of the way the world seems to be literally coming to an end, and of how blithe and nonny so many people are....which only makes me feel more childish and inept and insane, and that the only appropriate place for me is under a warm rock, pressed to the sand, breathing in seagulls through my already stuffed nose, and crabs walking sidewise on the beach, who breast-pocket their favorite pebbles from below their crooked feet, and the pelicans not far off with their noses long and unhappy and always too full to fly comfortably, to them all I would say something if only it seemed I could open my broken jaw to speak, but.....this world is changing and everything is dying. Turn the page, they laugh (those other homo sapiens who now seem more foreign than the beasts); turn the page....and if in the falling sky you find something to catch and be sad for, then we won't keep you, but snicker sadly. After all, they sing with fadingly animal glance, whisper whisper whisper 

 

of sense they make none; and for myself all i can speak: 

i would strip myself of all this pain  

to ascend  

i try to speak, and close my eyes fiercely, imagining somehow that i might rise as a spirit does, up and in and against (and of) the wind that really after all haven't we always, the sensitive (and life-blood-feeling) ones, suspected was something just a bit godly and divine  

 

 

without a body