Superstition

Imagine that the world is an animal. Not the Earth, not the globe, but the world encountered—the black cat walking away from you; the birds circling overhead in twos and threes and fives; the itch that lands on your left nostril; the bird that flies into your car as you load the groceries and then trembles on the seat, its wings and heart fluttering like a moth; the spill of salt across the ground.
Imagine that all this is a small animal or even a cookie, bark-brittle and tasting of sugary glue, which you can open it and read what is inside. (You eat the flesh, the outer shell and muscle, as always, but the insides, you read.)
And what you read is the self you can encounter but never inhabit. Your mirror self. Your photo self. Your puddle self. Your footstep self. Your self within a marriage ring. Your self rising and falling on the waves of a distant sea. Your self in labor. Your name. Your shadow self, future and past, laid out like a compass rose. Your ghost self. Your dead self.
And what is remarkable is what you want to know about this self. You will cry on Wednesday and blush on Thursday. You will die first or last. You will kiss a fool.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Superstition'.