a fantasy of feathers
I’ve always fantasized about feathers flitting across my forehead while fearing the flames that flicker beneath my feet. My mind travels from my temples to my toes, vacillating between Elysian fields and entropic erosion. I fear the future, immobilized, inarticulate, and inept at dealing with the consequences of a life lived contained by conscious consideration of everyone else.
When I pulled back the braids of my brain, hell trickled in to fill the gap. It was the fear of failure, the neverending abandonment, the undeniable doubt that I was worthy of the earth or its inhabitants. The peace of death doubled with the fear of catching fire laid me out on a bed of spikes. The more I squirmed to seek salvation, the greater my deeds, the more I carried on in the face of unending disappointment, the deeper they sank into my back. I wept, I shouted, I whispered into blank space above me but nothing whispered back.
That’s when I notice the breath beating beside me. Soft, steady, soothing. Balancing my brain, blood, and bone. My eyes water from the frustration of an untethered body and from the gratitude your gravity brings, restoring my center and realigning my restless worries into tranquil transitions. You put your hand on my chest, press down firmly and release, massaging a rhythm of regulation into my ribcage. The spikes slide out and the pain slips away.
Through red-coated eyes, I turn to look into yours. I see more than the marbled blue. I see the hell draining away. I see salvation as a state of mind and not a series of good deeds. I see a buoyant hope that I can be healed, a sweetness in your smile crafted just for me, a desire to shield me from the shame of the past, the pull of my paranoia, and the deepest worry that I will wither away alone. All those fears fade when I look at your face. And the feathers feel soft to the touch as the flames finally flicker out.
Brannon Writes 