Postcard 6

Dear B,

You've used two words in the last two postcards that have reverberated in between my ears: "oppressive" and "drowning." Are you too feeling small? Or is it just me, feeling small in the shadow of location, occupation, routine, and hope? "Hope is a thing with feathers," indeed, except it "perches on the soul" with bladed talons, gashing your flesh. Reminding you that the only thing soft are your dreams of what could have been; reminding you that reality is hard.

These past three days have been my hardest reality. Failure in the face of almost no hope. I've never been this afraid. Mindfulness--living in the present moment--has been an active goal of mine for many years, but now I am forced to focus on this exact second. If I allow my brain to think of what has passed or what faces me in only a matter of hours, then my stomach roils, I sweat, and I start making emergency exit plans.

Do you ever think about what pilots do as the plane crashes? Do all of them flail at the controls? Or, do any of them sit silently, feeling each breath through their nostrils, watching the clouds flood past the window at an ever-increasing pace?

Wish you were here.

R