The Original Blackbird Memory Letter

To go. To go away. To Break. To be broken. The words aren't as simple as they seem. Sometimes you need a little poison to clean the wounds. Or let the blood. Haven't you ever found it interesting how empty we are? You take all the fluid out and what's left? A shell. You put it in again. What happens then? There's nothing in that fluid. Except salt. Sea water without zooplankton. We calm down about then. Relax because we're all the same, swimming in our own enclosures. The sunlight likes to dance with me. Light and free. But slow sometimes, and gentle. Did you know Apollo? I remember his horses. Their hooves beat across my face. Left bruises. You ever tell anyone? Not a soul. You can't kick back without hooves. Remember how you used to try? I guess landing in snowbanks began to sting too much. Smoke knocks on the door and you shrug it off. There are plenty of cracks. And plenty of ghosts already. I'm not leaving. This and this alone is mine. There are darker things in this world than headaches and phone calls. I don't believe in either of those. We make them up. It's all in your head. Like when that silver horse won the Derby. Stuff like that never happens in real life. There's a porch somewhere and it's all cracked and weathered and all it's trying to do is move on and get away from abandoned dogs and stray cats. Splinters in your feet. They're just reminders that we are fragile. But they make you strong. I know, you've had a good number of them. I try not to think about the marks left behind or the chunks still stuck in me. It makes for tough conversation. Especially around meals. Food has no value all of a sudden. Funny how we notice value only when it is lost. Sometimes it's hard to imagine the light a fallen tree might let in. Little stars, not always wanted. Are we wanted? I want you and you want me. Does that not make it so? No, we never are. We're just here. No one asked you. No one asked me. No one asked us.