surgery, sterility does not speak--
words of a butterfly's wing, the
fully formed, but immature, offspring is born.
I keep thinking I ought to write down what I'm thinking, but if I see what I'm thinking and hear what I'm thinking, I might know what I'm thinking, and I think I don't want to.
I think, therefore I'm scared.
You feel the fluttering in your chest, in your belly, barely noticed at first, barely there. Soon, though, it grows, it's a heavier beating, wings beating from the inside, centered on the solar plexus, making it hard to breathe. You like to tell yourself it's butterflies. Then you start to wonder if it's dragonflies. Then you begin to believe it could be dragons after all.
If I'm not careful, I might breathe fire.
I try to gather words the way a dragon gathers treasure, build up a word-hoard of jewels and gold and royal purple to dress up my thoughts in. But maybe they have no wish to wear those fancy clothes. Maybe they would tear off the clothes I would like to see them wearing, rip and claw and bite at the clothes that would make them pretty, fit for public display. Naked thoughts are invisible, of course, but there's always something around for them to dress up in. Maybe they would rather cover themselves in dust and ash and earth.
It isn't seeing immature thoughts that bothers me. It's the possibility I might find them fully-formed. Words of a dragon's wing, casting aside the clothes of polite society and showing their true selves to the world.
In some cases, despite careful and correct surgery, you discover that you still breathe flames.
[Originally posted January 2006]