Think of a sickly, wounded bird. Faded grey.

Then think of a fire licking up around it. A funeral pyre and also a celebration of (re)birth.

A phoenix must die to rise. To be renewed. Consumed in flame that does not hurt but heals. I like the way it burns.

Partly because of the great sieve I have in place of a brain I am immortal. I am a phoenix, motherfucker. If you want to beat me down, you’re going to need a bigger stick. And more patience than there are stars in the sky.

I live moment by moment. Breath by breath. Pain doesn’t stick, but pleasure doesn’t either. It’s a different way to live, as unimaginable to you as the fact I have no minds eye (If you can imagine, reach out. We can be alone together). I rage against the dying of the light, yet there is nothing I can do.

I must move forwards, because stillness is death. An endless restlessness that I wish on no one.

I am not as I was. I shall not be as I am. Blink by blink I change faster than I can keep up with. Someday, perhaps I will find an iteration of myself I don’t vehemently hate.

Hate me? I empathise. (Oh to be able to turn these pretty/twisted words into song…)