The Wild Heart of Life

I wish that I had known Virginia Woolf.  The way she drifts beneath the waters of the Ouse River.  Near Sussex, her pockets full of stones.  I would have liked to hold her hand and smell her hair.  That glorious mane of woman hair, strong and maternal.  Safe.  I would have liked to wrap my fingers in it, to tangle my body inside and around her own.  In the waters, I get lost and wonder if I really want discovery.  It would be lovely for the all of me to float away.

I am wind, but I should have been born water.  Wind almost never makes a sound, except for when she’s angry.  Water, though, she’s always carrying on with babbles.  Little exclamations.  Perhaps I would have had a stronger voice.  Can things like this become transmitted through the womb?  I want to blame my mother, as daughters do.  I…

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