The day of Pajarita’s liberation came without commotion.
An ordinary day full of worries and wishes;
an itchy day of discontent but with enough music to make it bearable.
She had been walking forever; she looked at her dusty feet, then her wings.
Her wings were a burden;
they gave her a false sense of pride. “Such pretty feathers.”
She made them fan and she peeked demurely through their silver shadows.
“Who am I kidding?” She said to herself, disgusted and weary from hope.
“These things are useless.”
She came to a place where one road became two.
Both had crooked houses colored pink, turquoise, adobe.
Both had bright white shirts and patched pants that flapped
and chattered in the crisp language of clothes on the line.
A breeze threw its purple shadows here and there,
sympathetic shade, offering the only comfort it could.
Pajarita marked the road she was on with a little stone
A peacock screamed and day was separated from night;
evening was as soft as silk.
Precious wounded past,
There is no way to leave you behind any more than a river
can leave it’s bed, because where the water goes, there go its banks.
And why would I leave you
before accepting the gift you offer?
Patient, you wait, sometimes for years
before I recognize what you’ve offered but always, when I have received your gift I see that my existence
has expanded, inwardly so that the bed upon which my life flows is deeper
and goes to places that were not there before I exhaled,
grateful for the awareness you’ve brought me.
Always, the gifts you bear restore my faith tenfold
and I can barely contain my joy as I try to hold the roving water.
My heart is breaking.
I think ahead to an hour from now
When the day is in full swing,
I’m trying not to feel this way, but everything I want to do seems further away from me.
I want to eat less and exercise more because that is what the media says will be my ticket through the door of good health and good karma.
Eat less, exercise more has been my mantra since elementary school. It was easier to accomplish when I snorted “whites” in the bathroom before sitting in class to learn about Mesopotamia.
How could I care about other civilizations when the size of my jeans was the most important thing?
A good day is measured by how little I manage to eat.
I need to stop trying to starve because it only compells me to feed.
I restricted food for years and years till I got angry and in a fit of tears I felt the pendulum swing to the other extreme.
I want to care about something beyond how much or how little I eat but I don’t know how.
No matter how sublime my philosophy, it all boils down to
“to eat or not to eat.”
How can this be?
I consistently want to be consistent but I can’t consistently do anything with any consistency!