Sometimes I dream I am an eagle, or a hawk, or some other bird of prey, with the land splayed out below me. Great dusty mesas with flat tops that have been broken into gorges by the deep sapphire veins of rivers.
Down there is a desperate land. A land where life clings to every moment before grasping the next. It is bloody and chaotic. Every beast that fights the fiercest or acts the smartest is still subject to the forces of chance. The next dawn is never guaranteed.
I am a ghost, in this dream. Ethereal. The wind blows through me. I may stand in the rivers and watch the current pass through my legs. I can't be harmed by the world and I can do no harm to it. All I can do is wander and watch.
It is a relief to be free of thirst and hunger. Of fear and pain. But I find myself longing all the same.
I want the wind under my feathers. I want to crush something in my talons. I want to feel the momentary fear of a passing shadow. I want to be seen. I want to be heard.
And yet, I know in my bird brain that if I were of flesh again, I would only wish to be free of all the earthly labours. They are only desired in the abstract. In the fantasy they are satisfying. Only when you get what you want do the implications fully form themselves. And you wish you were a ghost again.
Paddy Dobson
21st August 2021