Unedited and lovingly full of mistakes. A free write in response to the prompt ‘Quill’.
The feather of an eagle. One necessary for flight. The freer the bird the more I want to see it grounded, to pluck each and every last wind catching feather from it’s body, to see it helpless and useless and writhing. The sound of the gun echoing through my ears brings me solitude. The rush of the power coursing through me as I realise the power I have, the will I hold to change something so irreversibly. It’s pathetic. Take take take. But it’s so easy. Thinking is too hard, it leads to places I don’t want to go, I know the sky and all that inhabits it and I want it all to be mine. I love the cerulean hues cast with red, splayed with oranges and violets, untouchable, unreachable. But I can manipulate what floats within those soft skies, change and plunder those that can land on mountains, shaking earth from it’s shale sides. Watch as the rocks tumble, watch as the eagle falls, into my grasp, into my greedy greedy hands. I like knowing I’m being selfish, I like feeling it’s heart stop between my fingers, I like the frenzy it stirs the dogs into, the horse is panicked, it rears and bucks at the proximity of death, but I crave the feeling of striking fear into those around me. Out here among the dry grasses as tall as hips I somehow no longer feel small. I stand taller than the centuries. I tower over the rock that is impossible to climb. I need to look down. Too long I’ve been looked down upon. Craving change through routine. Paradoxical. Like changing time, manipulating the past. I want to go back and redo things. I missed the albatross. My bullet crazed it’s neck, stroked it’s life, it swayed, altered it’s course thanks to lady luck’s merciful push. But next time I will not miss. I do not make the same mistake twice. It will know my battle cry. The rocks and the shoots and millennia will know my voice. I am temporary, it will say. My croaked voice and dragged out breath will say, notice me, I am temporary. I need to be felt. Remembered. The mountains do not worry they will not be noticed. Such presence. Do not need to worry they will be passed by. Owls alter their course for them. Fly over and under. Move for me, I move for no one. Rooted in the expanse of time. Changing imperceptibly to some. Would immortality improve our race or destroy it? Maybe we don’t deserve extra time. We are already too dangerous. To have more, would it force us to crumble? Would we finally know our own weaknesses? I think we would never learn. Just have longer to repeat the same histories. Have longer to ignore our own mistakes.
I don’t spend enough time staring straight up at the sky.