Fear

Feeling like it's much later than it is. 

A rhythm out of sync.

But this feeling is something with roots, beyond jet lag. It's been building, confusing me, whispering, growing agitated.

It doesn't speak my primary language but I understand. It's begging to crack through the surface into the light.

It unnerves me. I'm not sure if it's a monstrosity I should kill on sight or if it's an unknown, yearning to BE known, something I should observe and decide to nurture. It's too soon to know much of anything.

All I know is, it's part of me. 

~

A friend of ours told me last week that I write well. His word choice was more eloquent than that but suffice to say, it meant a lot coming from him. I consider him one of the most brilliant, talented human beings I've had the pleasure to know in my life - an amazing writer whether song, prose, or joke. 

Despite his own uprooted life journey in recent times, his ability to ground those that flail to get their feet back to Earth does not seem compromised while he picks up the pieces from the shipwreck he's (mostly) survived. 

My main ship still sails, but I have this impending sense of doom. It flutters its wings against my ribcage, pecking holes in all my bones. Sometimes its screaming echoes up my esophagus, threatens to escape through my own mouth. But ultimately, it circles past the larynx, into my skull, muffling my prefontal faculties in a cocoon. 

One day, the bird will make its way through and take over my body. Until it does, it will burn in me, dying and regenerating, until it has its day in the open air, feral, free, fighting or flying.

I worry about what this means. I bite my fingertips to keep the fear from seeping too far into reality, safely tucked inside where all it does is burn and feed and destroy. I figure better in me than outside to destroy what's been created. 

Dali's Persistence of Memory implants firmly within my amgydala.

There's another voice in there too. Calm. "What if the end you fear is the beginning you need?"

I hate that voice sometimes. The Pioneer. That son of a bitch.

But I'll write about it anyway. Maybe it will help me figure out how to get through whatever it is I'm going through.