The distance between falling and flying is unbridgeable. What one wants from flight exists in a perpetual relationship with the sensation of falling—but the cost of landing is exorbitant. To have control or lose control: but never both. To know the verbs that give us homelands without being able to inhabit them. To feel stranded in the space between motion and belonging. One goes to watch the birds from the roof of a building, and Rilke returns in the longing of mystics, in the cave that recreates a cosmos. I don't know what it means to be close to knowing the self in a language that holds me entire. May the byline be stars, scars, and sky, in this one. For now.
Alina Stefanescu on "Byline, Be Sky" |
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