A Hollow Boned Mystic

          My loss has not been crushing. No. It has not been the crumbling of stone so dearly labored over, with the composition of who I am carefully etched into every painstaking change of metal on rock. There was no great war, no great battle of wills bloodied and vengeful towards one another. It was surely no death of mankind, the loss of such a huge impact in our meek universe. In all reality it wasn't even the loss of a lead mammal, a well-adored animal stuffed and given to a child to be claimed as favorite.Yet, it was no light loss either.  Surely heavier than the extinction of an unknown insect species, a species that though perhaps it prided itself with some vital role in the workings of this world, held no real importance to the knowledge of those around it and conjured no sympathy on behalf of its wipe-out. No, my loss was a bit greater than that. I like to think of my loss as a rare and quite exquisite bird. A complex mechanism of hollowed bones and vibrant feathers that held content in a quite stunning and small existence. Darting among the flowers gifted to such open air, my sweet unknown species took pleasure in simplicity, in the self. Sheltered from such things as the heaviness that this world has to offer, it experienced true identity, the joy in a reality formulated by internal thought and unbiased towards the view of others. What naive artistry, what ill-fated loveliness this delicate bloom of a bird had been born into. So imagine the loss. The loss of an unknown delicacy unable to carry the weight of circumstance. Granted, many had no knowledge of its mastery of flight, its quickness of thought and allure. But I knew. The disconnect was admittedly swift and surprisingly easy to accept. It almost brought a comfort of numbness with it, no more enticing colors to watch flit to and fro among my steps. Just grey. How easy, how much easier than overwhelming fervor at such brilliance. But the hollowness of those extinct bones slowly moved itself into the confines of my chest cavity, quick to empty the existing instruments composed by my heart until the composer too was removed. An echoing cavern, that is what I had become, my body removed from mind removed from heart removed from soul. And though the numbness could not claim to have given me any trouble, it was the side-piercing, breath-stopping memory of that bird that had brought the slow ache every now and then, a reminder of such overwhelming emptiness. Many have attempted to name this bird, because unbeknownst to all of you, this bird is not quite so rare. Granted no two are the same, but the number of us individuals mirrors the number of such beautifully complicated creatures. Some have tried to label it innocence, wonder, childlike candor and inexperience with reality. Some have tried to pin it as a credulity in the mystic and impossible. We must grow up, let these quickly extinct birds return to the ground, the place where they belong in such a world. There is no room here for awe, for reverence of such a colorful creature. The quicker that is accepted, the better for us all, really. Right? It is more productive for us all the quicker you can be assigned to your cubicle and the label mistaken as purpose, laughably seen as passion. That sweet, free-flying bird left something behind with me though, something so much smaller and so much mightier than that hollowness. It left behind a fear of confined spaces. You see, that little mystic and I both were no strangers to the fear of claustrophobia, and though so much was lost in its passing, that fear was left aptly behind. A cubicle to encompass all that I am insights a fear so deep that it pushes me to seek out that little bird. Now, make no mistake here. The bird will not come back, no matter how much you plead, seek, and pray. That little bird, that sweetly bitter innocence, once lost does not return. But that is why I have started living a life in honor of that eight-year-old wonder that had once perched on my shoulder. I breath the open air to be renewed with the knowledge that confinement would be worse than death to that dear little creature. I revel in the fragrance of curious flowers to incite the astonishment lost before through familiarity.  I finger paint with colors of such vibrance in memorial of those colors that once embodied the air around me. I laugh without the awareness of pitch and dance without a thought of those who may be watching. And may I let you in on something? Something so hoped for that even now I almost dare not utter it in fear it might be true. That hollowness that crept its way into my body has slowly started its retreat. It has been replaced, slowly but undeniably, with the vibrancy and joy of my dear hollow boned wonder that had once been my companion.