I still (want to) believe that I can get back all the things I've lost. Faith, memories, times, eras, love, seasons, mulberries, train tickets, words, stories, epiphanies.
The card catalogue of the abandoned theatre, reproduced in miniature and sitting in my palm.
You are all you think you've lost, and found, and scattered, and unraveled. It's all more connected than you think.
Why do I still feel like a rickety assortment of memories, aches, joys and hopes, carelessly stitched together? It all keeps coming unraveled and I have to work fast to fix it before it's gone.
Don't know you by now, it's never gone.
Why can't I see it?
A simple change of shape. Metamorphosis.
I'm not comfortable with change.
Maybe change isn't comfortable with itself. That's why its shape keeps shifting.
That makes me feel even more anxious.
It shouldn't.
Why not?
Why so?
Aren't you supposed to be wise? Why are you asking me questions?
Why are we conversing in questions? What, do you think I'm Socrates or something? I'm a bird, for goodness' sake.
Well, you're a mythological creature.
Some would say. And some would say I'm a barn swallow. What do they say you are? Or more importantly, what do you think you are?
I have no idea. That's the problem.
Shh. There is no problem in that.
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