I envy the phoenix. To be born for rebirth, guaranteed purification. No one asks a thing of a firebird, what it gives is already enough. We look on, awed, reminded what our souls look like, thank it with reverent silence, and it flies, blissful.
I envy the snake much the same. To be born for rebirth, promised vengeance. No one asks a thing of a serpent, for fear of what it may give. We look on, petrified, reminded what our souls look like, thank it with a somber respect, and it kills, beautiful.
Sometimes I havenβt lived in my skin in weeks. Sometimes Iβm tired, sometimes all I am is tired. I shave my head/shed my skin/try and wash myself of it. Imbibe every possible fucking chemical hoping Iβll shift/undergo/molt/dig underneath this fence and flee confinement. Wildness sings inside me, runs along my nerves like a rainbow current, spins in fluorescent coils of aurora, but is stopped dead behind my fingertips. Smothered flames putter, die. Rebirth stalled.
All Iβm asking is to exist. All Iβm living is a hundred forms of denial. Trained, self-trained. Allowed. Needed. Rebirth is dangerous in this world. Snakes can be killed on sight, and no one even believes that firebirds exist. It's painful, not existing.
It's painful, not existing.
-on wishing for another world | Leviathan
