I keep having these recurring flashbacks of plummeting to the earth in a cloud of fire, smoke and burning, white feathers. Each flashback is accompanied by a sensory memory, the unmistakable smell of burning flesh. The flashbacks always end with me kneeling in the dust screaming and awkwardly groping for my shoulders and upper back, searching futilely for something that should be there, but is gone. I have no idea what these mean.
I worry about the birds sometimes. I love to watch them, especially the big ones, hawks and falcons, eagles. They're so graceful and majestic. As I watch them, I can almost feel what they're feeling, like a distant memory. I'm not jealous of them, however. I worry for them. I feel the need to warn them. "Don't be arrogant. Enjoy what you have, but be careful. Beware of pride." I want to warn them, but I can't remember how. I can't reach them. So, I just watch.
My new job has a familiar feel to it. I think it's meritocracy. I like it. It's more egalitarian than that morass of networked culture in which I was ectopic and, therefore, hopeless.
It's not hitting the ground that hurts the most, you know. It's staying there.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
