Fins, Feet, and Wings

Where the hook went in. Blade Right.

There is despair in not being enough. To being unformed or imperfect is fearsome, and it never goes away (though I know the shameful secret is that we all feel this way).

What is the thing I can do which gives me control for a moment?

I am writing now in service to my wild heart — impulses to destroy everything in my path, to sob a trillion tears, to wrestle ’till my death — these feelings overtaken by a simple movement of my fingers on this sticky imperfect plastic keyboard. I am writing from my center to you, who I imagine is also searching… It is the simplest thing I know how to do, so typing is the thing I choose.

I should go out and find a flower. Take a moment and fill my lungs with its perfume. Become the plant, and feed her with my exhale too. Symbiotically balancing, creating calm, and now.

Watch the baby of any creature discover a new thing — the way they react in fear or surprise, smile with trust, calm from food, or just simply take it in all around… At one time every one of us was so small and empty.

I am a mer-creature hooked from the primordial ocean, a rocky shore off of the frigid coast of Maine. I was caught some few decades ago and reeled in. Taken from my home and wiped clean. I learned to play all the games people play, but I long impossibly for the home I’ve forgotten. My bones howl and I can not quiet them, only wait their sounding out. I bloodlust the feeling of frigid ice water cutting the pain in my chest, slowly overtaking through pins and needles until a slightly warm sense of coming hypothermia creeps in, and then nothing… Salt and waves more real than a cradle, is what I crave.

Stories make us who we are.

Who am I? Who do I get to be? If I fail, will I be cast away? Foam on the sea? Doomed to wander, searching endlessly for those who, also erased, somehow recognize me — or is it finding the impossibles who will simply let me be that is my saving strategy? I may not fit any mold, but I hold my pieces together as best I can. Stitched up with fishing line, clear as the water and strong tether against my earthly weight…

Hung on hooks I know who I am.

A meatsack.

Bones and muscles and guts heavy from gravity, trapped inside a stretching skin stubborn enough to hold it all in. I was that mer-creature who traded my tail for legs. Bloody shoes. Due to desire. And today I ask for the pain of wings.

After soaring what next will I withstand, trading comfort for endorphins and sharp unease, all because I wish to truly be?

Play On My Friends,
~ Karin

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