"Words of your scorn my love give me more, send whips of opinion down my back."
I never had the chance to feel quite complete, like I would be forever trapped between two cultures.
But this isn’t a tug of war.
I don’t feel torn between them anymore, more like a rubber band gone slack. I am just one among the pushing spitting yelling crowds.
I can’t even write it out now, these grandiose feelings while flying, feeling like perhaps my language had come back.
I was soaring atop waves of clouds, my hope up there pressed up to the horizon of the infinite blue.
Above atmosphere.
The feeling of take off is such a thrill that I cannot sit by and not watch.
This is a feeling only matched by falling in love.
Then too I want, need my eyes open. Watching as my brain floats out clear of my head; where I am disembodied but simultaneously feeling every cell. It is so heavy there sitting, as I fly.
My stomach lurches and drops through the seat. I can see it plummet thousands of feet, picking up icicles on the way. That gut hurtling to the ground could have been the same one that dropped so suddenly at the right glance, that fleeting instant of connection where you know there is no turning back- you might as well be committed.
And this all happens on a loop: excitement, elation, commitment, love you have given so freely you could never expect it back.
Exhaustion.
And dread.
Because it all comes back to that. Any sort of love makes a home with dread.