Ann Marie Vancas-artist

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This is why Angels have wings…

Suddenly…I am transported…to a place…
Maybe my heart will betray me… maybe…my heart will free me instead…
I watch a flock of pigeons fly aloft….
And I realize…I am at the same height…
I know that in my clumsy heavy state…spindly arms and legs…
if I jumped….I would hit the concrete and it would be over….

I need another way to fly….
I think…I have always been envious of the birds…that they fly…
and the sea creatures…they can live in the sea…
unencumbered by human interaction.. (for the most part)

Is this why angels have wings…..?

I have always wondered at the cruelty of humans…
animals only need food from their masters… and they keep love from harm…
But not so man…
We have an innate sense of destroying the ones who love us.

I knew this at a very young age…I was never really impressed with humans…
we  love things so much…
we can make things…and we love these things…
We too can make people into things…
And I am not sure why…
If we decided to give love…would it will just be put in the box with the other things…?
Living things…dead things…things…

But what is this life inside of me…? this vaporous thing encased in bones and skin…that makes me want to feel…to fly…to search…to love…

Is this another thing?

It has tried to escape a few times…this thing that wants to fly…
If less encumbered by the body…perhaps it will be able to fly?
To breathe underwater…
To find the part of the world that is not cruel?
Is there such a place? Here?

When I had a series of people very close to me die…
I imagined…
ornate perfume bottles…
stoppers released…their perfumed souls rising in the air like vapor….mingling with the clouds…

I am weak…and it terrifies me….
Always wanting to be strong… but I can’t…
For once…I don’t want to..
So I will rejoice in my weakness…
Free of the burdon of having to be the perfect thing…and there are so many opinions…
of what makes a thing a perfect thing…a beautiful thing…a worthy thing…
Of being just another thing…
And we search for the reason of the crime we have committed…
of not being a beautiful thing…

If my life is mine…is it not mine to do as I wish…
to even destroy it as I see fit? Would this be murder?
We have a responsibility…I think…to take this time…to see…
Why…
why why why??????
Why are we here…???
Why….
Why….
Why???????????

It is exhausting…this question….
but it always there…whispering in our future…our memories…and our past.
We have our prejudices…obsessing on how things are SUPPOSED to be…and not how they actually are..
We lie to ourselves...and to others…saying that the mantra of the  lie…Thinking if said over and over it will somehow…miraculously be a Truth..
We lie to ourselves because we are afraid…
Lies become things…to protect…to feed and to keep alive…
If left unfed…on a shelf…it becomes hungry… and screams for attention…
thus being a slave to the lie…The lie that we call  the Legitimate Excuse…

I think to myself…
I will  play Russian Roulette instead…
That is what I will do….
Hanging on to hope….with my wounded arms…holding up my heart like a sword…
Ready to go to battle…

I think…
which of cupids arrows will be the one which will destroy me…?
My right arm growing tired…
I hold up my shield of false security…
Wanting instead to drop it to the ground with the rest of the things…
This is how I will  fly…
Using my tired arms to fly away from this world…
trying to flap my arms…fists clenched dragging Hope behind me…
slowly…clumsily….
But flying none the less…
















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