Drifting fast into a state of zen, I am like a candle's flame. Alone, meditating, I flicker no more. I am steady and controlled and the wind is nonexistent here and now. Nothing will snuff me out. I am strong and my mind- although empty- feels powerful along with it.
This is not me. This is no one. For at this point in time, I do not exist. I am fire, I am water, I am earth, I am air. I am the still flame burning from a wick, melting the wax beneath me: liquifying stress and silencing anxiety.
I inhale and exhale the music, surrounding me in a cloud of harmonies and tempos. I listen to the lyrics whispered, trying to bring myself back to reality, float me to the surface of this deeply calm sea:
"Then when the cops closed the fair
I cut my long baby hair
Stole me a dog-eared map
And called for you everywhere."
I unwillingly wiggle my warm toes and work my being into my body, reforming me. And just like that, I return to being Rain Peony Clarke. The unstable, flickering flame.
. . . . .
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