I'm very light. I think maybe I burned all up: I'm ash, now. I once saw a sheet of newspaper fall into a very hot campfire: the entire sheet flared and turned carbon-black, all at once, still whole, its type a faintly visible silver. And it floated back towards the sky, in one piece.
I'm adrift like that: transformed, possibly ruined, but whole, and drifting very gently. I have been a long time aloft.
Self-exiled from my friends, from my writing, from all the life I knew before. But I'm coming home now, with my black, silver-tattooed wings shivering. Gliding down to rest, softly. Maybe I'll come to bits, snagged on twig-points and leaf-ends and fence-posts. But maybe I'm fine. Who knows?
Once upon a time, Prince Siddhartha Gautama decided enough was enough. It was time to sit down, and not to get up again until he had solved the problem of suffering. But you have to reach the ground, before you can do something like that.
So many things happened in such rapid succession. I was dazed by the end of it. Because for many long years nothing had happened, and I had grown accustomed to nothing happening. I thought nothing would ever happen again. Then, whoosh! The fire – and again – and again –
And now, the ground coming slowly up to meet me; the night air gently laying me down.