I imagined myself as a spirit, cold and breathing from the habit of it, my lips blue like my eyes. I was drifting through the mountains, my feet hovering over the dirt and my body angled and quivering as I ascended. The air was thinner, and although I didn’t need it, I found myself growing lightheaded. I was a visitor in my own body, lacking control or even will, just going where guided. The top, my mantra. The top, the top, I whispered. Trees were plentiful , and I extended a ghostly appendage, my fingers touching those Alabama evergreens. I moved faster, dizzingly fast, and began to circle the path, still headed up, up, but now through the trees and into the trees. Spirits can’t bleed, but I imagined branches scratching my face as I flew; I imagined the lines such scratches would make, thin and slightly raised, jagged skin torn in some places, just perturbed in others. The trees with their long fingers, gently caressing my cheeks with biting fingernails and the wind dancing with me. The image seemed beautiful.
I saw a stag, his horns thick and captivating, his eyes dulled and a pale blue- unseeing, and he turned to me, those milky irises square on me. Unsettled, I reached a hand to him but to no reaction. The thought of talking appalled me, the idea of having to listen to my own voice. My words were to be a punishment to us both. I smiled sadly for this deer so clearly nearing the end of his life, so tired, dead-tired. He can rest, said the wind, writing in goosebumps on the back of my neck. I found myself thinking of his impending rest- a rest so deep and heavy, so permanent- with longing. As if he could sense my thoughts, the stag reflected those same sad eyes once reserved for him onto me. My hand, still extended, was met by his cold nose, a nuzzle as if to say do not be sad. You can rest soon.
