Feather

I wish I could transcend into a state where my face completely clears. I want my skin to be smooth and a thin fabric stretched across what I have inside. I want to be a pixie, an angel, something that never stays in one place for more than a second, whose walk is as light and soft as velvet, something that knows no illness or bodily discomfort. I want to be emotion, I want every pore of myself to be cleared of all its clogs, and I want pure water to seep through every cell and cleanse it of all colour. I want to be a light, white translucent being, a lucid-bodied person hovering above the ground. I want my fingers to elongate and stretch out so that when I touch something, I can grip its essence and feel its surface with my palms. I want no dirt or grime or anything on me. I want my skin to have the lightest of creases when I smile, and I want the space of skin between my eyebrows and my eyelashes to be soft as cloud, so that my eyes glow when they're closed, asleep. I want to have light green-blue-gray eyes that reflect the essence of winter flower. I want to be clothed in that kind of comfortable, extremely light-colored teal cotton cloth where you can see the interweaving of threads. I want to be under the Tree on top of the hill on a cool, blurry night when everything around looks like my own souls, waiting for me, encircling me in their collective embrace, sparkling at the sight of me. I want to stand under the Tree on top of this hill and lean against the bark, perch on one of the branches, and wait. I want to wait for him that will come up behind me and hold me as his possession, as his solace and as his love. I want then for everything to stop, at that cozy moment where the night and the cold and everything else is my friend, and to simply be, so that I may love and be loved.