Another old tweet story.
A Twist Of Air
A man sits, contemplating the space where his navel should be.
It's a long time since he has had the courage to look at his own body. Many years since he's dared to allow a glimpse of himself in a mirror
He runs yellowed fingers through the coarse hairs the cover the smooth skin where surely there should be the dimple, the empty twist
of air that turns inside and once connected him with his mother. He is as unfamiliar now with his mother's face as he is with his own body.
The idea begins to take seed that perhaps he never had a mother. Is this what happens? Is this how you become an angel?
Are the things you thought were yours gradually claimed back, packed away one by one until you are light, unburdened?
Yes, that must be it. He feels so light now, nearly all the things that were once his have been, gratefully, given back.
Light enough to float, up, out of this chair, just to watch the things which once were so familiar, drift down and away, untethered.
Everything given back, unhitched, decoupled, left to fall away, and the lightness, now, the lightness, the warmth.
The old man sleeps.