Released. It’s like I’d been removed from my body and could see it looking down now from above. But from what vantage, what shape did I occupy? Where was the “I?” The great pine boughs flopped like trunks on some prehistoric beasts. There was no sound between me and the glass looking out. It was hard to imagine what form I assumed, like the flickering of a bulb before it pops or the air released by a balloon’s last gasp. What gives it shape? The insides or outside? We are animated by a force that inhabits this shell, bound to it. We never know its true worth. Maybe that is some meaning to this life, its weight. And why I only have that feeling when I’m flying in dreams, a distant memory or imagined past. Weightless.

Categories: identity, prose, writing

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