Time out

Sky Child, why do you mourn?

A question I cannot answer--

It is not that the question is not directed at me; for the more I think about it, the more the epithet fits.

It is not that I do not trust the inquirer; no, I would no sooner divulge an answer to anyone else on this earth.

It is not that the question is unfounded; my body language, now as ever, betrays my emotion.

Still, the words do not come and the OED cannot help me now.

My stubborn neurons, failing to attach sufficient postage to the letters that are supposed to form words en route to my vocal cords, which, for their own part, have become paralyzed--their typical response to stress--refuse to offer an explanation even to me.

I sit on my heels and watch the rain--the droplets cling to the fine wire mesh which sways in the breeze and they grab bits of light from the streetlamp so they become stars in some distant galaxy--yet it is right here in front of my nose--which shivers as if to acknowledge its own existence--and though the windows are shut and I know (or I thought I knew) the gaps between silicon dioxide molecules in the glass are far smaller than the drops of dihydrogen monoxide which are attacking the pane from outside (or is that in and I am left out?), yet somehow two or three have gotten through and landed on my cheeks and I don't even know how or why.

But there is that woman with a French name dispensing ancient Mayan cacao remedies on the tv screen and in my mug and it feels better for a while, warmer, at least.

Then I shut it all out. Time will not stop and wait for me to sort out the world as it is right now; instead, it runs on while I am unconscious of its course. Then, for variety, I reverse it. Now I am on the outside and I have shut everything else in. And I go seeking the sky–oh, how gorgeous!–endless expanse of air, my element, my substance.

Breathe.

And float down again.