...And Suddenly I Descend

Always, we walk two ways.

One way down that way, to the place

we know we ought to be. And one way down the other way,

to the place we want to be. I walked for many miles in many directions, knowing

one thing:

everywhere I turned refused me what I wanted. So,

I distanced myself from all places

knowing I could never exist fully in any one place, only

in part

in several places. To him,

I wished I were the mysterious woman worth pursuing, worth taking time

to write too many letters to,

worth making a fool of himself for.

As it turned out, it was I who always turned

fool. I wrote the love letters, and I remained faithfully

unsatisfied, knowing that I was turned the wrong way but still

wanting, oh, so desperately, to remain there,

imagining one day I would be alluring

enough to sustain one’s attentions and desires. But I failed

on this account as I could never be enough for him, and I knew I could never be,

but again and again I tried. I tried like mad, wearing

fancy dresses, speaking in a language of grace and elegance, relating witty comments.

He was never what I really wanted, only

a dream, and knowing that he was only a dream,

he faded away, like all dreams do, until I was left

only with the reality of cold truth. No truth is warm

or tenderhearted or gracious. It is only cold, and hits you

like large pellets of hail and pulls you into the whirling wind

of the tornado only to throw you hard out into the impossibly still world again. 

And so, we always find ourselves walking in place, only

pretending to move, but never really getting anywhere.

We wish we could be who we wish we could be, but we never can.

Our wishes, subject to the earth’s gravitational pull, fall. They become

buried one hundred times over, beneath the weight of other wishes and that of our bodies

which follow. Who is it we wanted to be? Self-reflection

is a difficult task and for many not worth the effort. I am always

falling.

My hands fail to maintain

their strong hold on the seventh floor

window sill,

release their grip,

and suddenly

I descend. Yes,

 I do hear the choir of angels. Saints

whisper in the wind.

But there are no familiar voices.

The stringed instruments make a pretty sound,

and heavenly voices run through each one. I become

no longer in my own place, but instead

in the place of those before me

and ahead.