I dreamed there was a falcon way up in the sky coming after me. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. Some things are just true.
It’s hard to know where to hide from winged destruction. It’s not as though you get to ask for a break to figure things out. The claws will come, and they’ll either get you or they won’t.
Can you imagine the stain my remains will leave behind? We’re not much to look at in life. In death we’re disgusting. Blood and tissue and bone. They’re not pretty out of place. Then you’re just somebody else’s problem. Nobody likes to see other people’s guts. They remind us too much of our own.
I could try to talk to the falcon. Ask it why we keep this game up. We both know it’s bullshit, a theater. Can’t it see the absurdity of chasing after me? The absurdity of me running away? Where am I even going?
The falcon wouldn’t understand. It’s too late. It took off and is flying towards me at terrifying speeds.
I squeeze behind a tree. Its gnarly old bark is beautiful. I could cry. I wish I were just a tree trembling in the wind.
But I’m not.