A Wing and a Prayer

A wing: an improvisation, a feathery limb, a swift movement.

Thrown off the edge of a cliff unexpectedly there is nothing really that you can do, except maybe scream. But with the wind hitting your face, making your eyes water and the view of the ground below enlarging and becoming clearer, like a camera zoom, I don’t suppose your voice would remember that it was about to escape your throat. Your heart barely beating and your brain in shock, only able to produce images of you at your worst times is all you have to remind you that you are still alive. And that for the moment though brief, things could be worse.

A prayer: a plea, a cry, a sigh.

A call for help when spiraling down to your death because all you have is a broken wing.

One wing.
And it’s broken.

In fear you reach out, grappling for anything that feels like it might save you even if it’s a slippery rope that slides between your fingers. But your heart refuses to give up trying even though it is too afraid to beat. So you summon your courage and call out to a God you’re not even sure exists. There must be Someone or Something that created the universe right? Maybe It might recreate you after the “plop” sound that confirms your meeting with the soil. But there seems to be no response and so you brace yourself for your end.

Suddenly, you find that you are no longer falling. The air does not rush past you anymore and your heart still has a feint rhythm. You still are. You are looking down at the amazing wonders of creation from the palm of the One who created it. And then you realise that you are flying on a wing, and a prayer.

Kas

Cracked

Ornaments of glass are fragile. More so those made of ice. The heat of you was more than I thought I could handle. I liked it. It reminded me that I was alive and that I had more than myself to live more. I thought I needed more than myself to live.

I thought you would only melt me. That way even if I turned into a puddle of water, I would still be and you would still hold me in a bowl or a cup and every once in a while in your hand. You would still take care of me and when the time was right, sculpt me back into a beautiful Swan made of glass with wings spread out and ready to soar.

Turns out I wasn’t made of ice. I was far too warm to ever have been. I should have known when I didn’t melt but instead started to expand, to accommodate more of you until finally I couldn’t take anymore. It was then I realised I was made of glass. But glass is forged in fire, it can handle a little heat, right? The worst you could do was crack me.

I was wrong.

The pieces of me that I burst into are still lying on the floor. I’m not ready to pick them up yet, I’m not ready to be cut trying to put them back in place.

I’m a little more than just cracked.

Kas

Dear God, 3/3

Hi, it’s me. I know I asked you to take me back last time but I really, really want to quit again. But that’s kind of hard to do when you keep giving me stuff to do. When you keep giving me hope.

You know what I don’t like the most about that? That you give me hope. Just a glimmer of it and I hold on for dear life, swinging from one end to the other like a pendulum, praying I don’t slip off and fall.

I quit and then I get right down to work, trying to figure out what this your Guardian Angel over here is trying to get me to do. Why is he so much like me? Are you trying to punish me by showing me just how hard dealing with me is? I already know, I deal with me plenty.

I deal with a whole lot because apparently, that’s what people who follow you have to do. I’m not happy about that, but I’m stuck here.

Jeremiah was right. You seduced me and I am seduced.

Kas