They say birds of a feather

flock together.

But maybe that’s why I feel under the weather.

With my body tethered to this world I sought a way to be liberated.

I wandered through the forest until it split into two valleys.

I chose the path less trampled and my eyes opened.

Reborn into a world of self-expression I discovered new symbols that held meanings that displayed the inner heart. The soul. The vein of existence.

Before I learned to write I learned to read.

As my fingers brushed over the letters encrypted a tingle crept through my body.

A secret language that could never be erased.

It was the ship that encased my heart, my mind---the essence of my soul.

Eventually I moved from reading to writing.

At first the letters came out jumbled, backwards with no meaning at all.

But it was a start; the spark that lit the night.

And suddenly in the room upstairs that was once sentenced to be dark

A light shown bright.

I write not because I can, but because I need to.

The same reason why we sneeze eschew.  

It’s the tingle, a magic.

An ancient but modern form of self-preservation, self-declaration.  

They say birds of a feather

flock together