It started out as a story about, I don't know, revelations and sincerity and the empty shuddery thrill of looking into an empty sky and seeing a lone bird winging out toward the horizon. But it didn't fit, not really, like sitting in front of a panel of psychotherapists and being asked to, without using the words "happy", "life", or "I", describe what it means to be fulfilled. You would answer, if you could, but all you can think of is the moment, earlier in the day, when your sweater snagged on the door of the bus and started to unravel. And that's not a story to fit the situation, even if it is the one that feels the best.
I wake up in the middle of the night often already standing somewhere else, and though I can sometimes remember leaving my bed with conviction I am usually confused about why. Lost in my own apartment and a little bit in my own head.
In the kingdom of forced metaphors it's almost always the birds who wear the crown, inhabiting as they do all of the vast open spaces. Revelations are usually the saddest things with wings.
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