A dragonfly can remain in it’s nymph stage for up to four years before fully transforming into the beautiful winged creatures we admire. They flit around in the water like little faeries, growing and becoming day by day. Perhaps some of them watch with longing as their companions take flight while they are stuck wondering when they will soar among the clouds. They may even begin to believe that their time will never come. That they are destined to remain a nymph and nothing more. Some might not even believe in the final stage, thinking swimming in the cool waters is all they were ever meant to do.

We humans are similarly complex beings in that some of us will take the full length of time to grow spiritually while others may require much less. Don’t try to force growth, your wings need to mature in their own time, life is funny like that. Follow your path with confidence that your time to fly among the stars will come. Always remember that the stage of transformation can be very painful. You must give yourself the love and patience necessary to survive it.

Rejoice in your journey.

Each special detail etched onto the wings of your soul belongs to you and you alone...

I am not a monster. I used to be a man. A beautiful, desirable, decidedly human man. Broad shouldered. Thick lipped. Smooth voiced. What am I now? I cannot say. Perhaps I should start at the beginning. Better yet, let me start at the middle. On the day I first noticed the changes.

I remember the morning it happened. Well, the morning I noticed it had already happened. Gray skies without, white wisps of warm tea within. I’d singed my tongue sipping too quickly. It tasted bitter that day, no matter how much honey and sugar I put in it. My wife usually made it for me, she had a knack for preparing it just so, but she’d been busy that morning with the children. I’d spilled some tea on the side and began lapping it up with a thick, red tongue. Only, my tongue is normally pink, and normal sized. And I never lapped up anything. I was running late for a zoom call, so I dismissed the anomaly and ambled to my chair. It groaned a bit louder as I sat, but at the time I hardly noticed. As the days went on, I began to notice more and more.

First came the nails. They grew long and sharp, pointed and grey at the tips. I began cutting through my shoes, though I hardly ever wore them anymore. I ruined my favorite slippers. I ordered a second pair, a bit larger, and made a mental note to trim my nails--that never came to fruition.

Next were the itches. My skin began to bloat and peel around the middle, under my arms, and at my back. I’d scritch and scratch until my skin tore. Then came the sweats. Laundry became a nightmare as I soaked through shirt after shirt. My wife began to complain. I was leaving dark, dirty stains and smells that she couldn’t get out. I promised to bathe more frequently.

Things took a turn for the worse when the vines came. They started out small. Little green sprouts at my feet. They tickled my toes as I worked, seemed harmless. But they grew. Longer, thicker, malignant. They soon began to coil around my ankles, my torso, and at times, my throat. I could hardly breathe, hardly move. My wife was busy with the kids, busy with her work, but she came to the office more frequently to help me with the vines. She came with shears, tore the vines, pulled me from my chair, begged me to walk. The vines were vicious, though. They came after me as soon as my wife left, pulling me back down to the chair. Eventually, I got used to them, except when they cut off my air supply. It made zoom calls a bit awkward.

Virtual meetings were bad sometimes, but bedtime was downright humiliating. Dark faeries followed me to the room, born from the bloom of the vines. They didn’t carry the tinny, sweet voices of childhood stories. They screeched as loud as banshees while I slept, and tormented me throughout the night. They crawled and stomped on my face. Sometimes they’d lodge their limbs into my nose and ears and give me quite a shock. My wife would shoo them away at night. She started burning mist to ward off the faeries, but they were relentless. Eventually I was cast out of the bedroom, so at least one of us could sleep.

There’s nothing more disgraceful than sleeping in the guest room of your own house. Though she never said the words out loud, I saw them in my wife’s eyes. More and more, I was becoming a stranger to her. She recoiled at my touch. She shied away when I drew near. Her eyes and shoulders sagged lower every day, weighed down by my peculiar troubles.

More changes came. I became as ravenous as a lion, with an insatiable appetite. Plates could never be full enough, cups ran dry too quickly, and though my body gorged my cravings never ceased. By some dark magic, my food did not, could not, satisfy me. My wife tried different potions and concoctions, some I rather enjoyed, but she could never quite keep up with my demands. So I strayed. I ate things high in deliciousness and dangerously low in nutrition in between regular meal times. I would have made the potions myself, but the vines kept me tied to my chair, and struggling against them left me with so little energy. They cut off the circulation at my feet, and those began to swell. Climbing, walking, moving, standing, they soon became unbearable tasks. So I did those things as infrequently as possible.

I had to order a new chair. Spikes began protruding from my spine. I don’t know when they arrived, but they riddled my chair with holes and mauled the leather. It didn’t stop there. Needle sharp spines shot out of the backs of my hands and chin as well, some the length of my longest finger. About that time, my children grew afraid of me. Fear shone in my wife’s eyes as well, but hers was different.

My voice began to change. It was no longer smooth, but rough as sandpaper. More faeries arrived at night. The vines grew stronger, so strong that at times my wife spent all her strength cutting the one crushing my windpipe, and had none left to cut me free. I take back what I said. There are worse things than sleeping in your guest room. Sleeping in your office chair, immobile and vulnerable, and asking your wife to hold a cup or bottle for you when you can no longer hold in your waste. That is misery.

Things have been this way for nearly a year now. I fear that whatever has taken hold of me will soon devour me entirely. At times, I pray the end would come. I no longer wish to be a burden on my family. I can’t remember the last time I held my children. The last time I embraced my wife. The last time I felt the warmth of human touch.

Here comes my wife now, with another round of potion. Bless her, but she seems tired. Dark circles mar the caramel skin below her eyes, but she’s still beautiful. Her clothes are mismatched. Red shirt, green and yellow yoga pants, sharp toenails sticking out of one blue and one green sock . . . Sharp toenails. I look up at my wife again. She runs a hand through her mop of dark curls as she waits for me to finish my potion. I take my time, examining her from top to bottom. She’s altered, somewhat. Heavier, yes. With signs of sweat at the armpits of her shirt. She sits in a chair, next to mine. Apprehension creeps up my spine as bright green stems creep along her ankles.

No. Not her.

She closes her exhausted eyes, and the vines continue their advance. I send out a cry of warning, but the vines that lock me to my chair squeeze and grow. They twist around me, tighter and tighter, spinning and coiling around my throat, squeezing my chest, collapsing my lungs, robbing me of breath. I drop my potion and the cup shatters on the ground. My wife’s eyes fly open, and she turns to me in horror. The vines surrounding her wrap around her ankles, but they’re too thin and weak to hold her. They break with a snap, and she grabs the shears, tearing at the green monstrosities until my throat is free. She continues her work, but her image clouds in my head. I blink and she’s gone. In a moment, everything disappears.

I am not a monster. I am a man. A man who ate too much and exercised too little. A man whose sedentary lifestyle took over his life. Inactivity, apnea, obesity, edema, arrhythmia. Slow killers, lurking in the shadows. Benign at first and hardly noticeable. Until they’ve wrapped their coils around you and made widows and orphans of your wife and children.

Perhaps I am a monster. But you don’t have to be a monster to be like me.

you asked for a peek.

i wonder,

will it be what you seek?

a little tour...

the real question is,

will you want more?

best to sit back,

enjoy the ride,

hopefully when it’s over

you won’t run and hide...

i suspect

we are all

sophisticated

organic

computers.

my mind

defrags

when i sleep.

filing memories

away

in little vaults.

assigning

passwords

composed of

scent,

song,

taste,

emotion...

multidimensional triggers

of a complex organism.

were you to unlock

a random vault

of mine...

a world of horrors

or

wonder

you’d find.

for one cannot exist

without the other.

with a password

composed

of shades of blue

and the scent

of lilacs,

you may walk through

a land painted

by Van Gogh himself.

soar through the fluid turbulence

of stardust in wondrous,

vibrant color.

or perhaps,

with a password

that tastes of

rain flavored ice cream

and feels like

bare feet on gravel,

you find a demon

with a face you trust,

who’s words slice deeper than any knife.

shredding you,

to the bone

with each

syllable.

to feast on

the meat of you.

suck the marrow

from your bones.

crack open your skull

for the tasty gray treat.

as you weep

and beg

for forgiveness.

to the demon

you’ll say...

i’m sorry,

my brain doesn’t work like yours.

letters and numbers speak differently to me.

and i’m sorry,

i know things you don’t.

a sixth sense you fear.

and i’m really sorry,

i couldn’t be who you wanted.

fit the shiny predetermined mold selected

just for me.

you’ll never know

how hard i tried

to cram my form

into such a rigid contraption,

oh the bittersweet familiar pain of it.

but i’m mostly sorry,

that your brain can’t see

letters whisper secrets to decode.

that you can’t feel

the excitement

from a small child

on Christmas morning,

in all it’s glorious colors.

that you’ll never see my true beauty,

a sight to behold,

i assure you.

the depths of my mind

and all of the spectacular creatures within

will forever remain

a mystery to you

and for this,

i apologize.

Everything is not what it seems.

In my world mixed signals are the norm.

They roll in waves,

a fog,

thick with the scent of subterfuge.

Up is down, yes is no, green does not mean go.

Words dipped in sugar contradict bitter energy,

served on a platter, pretty little pastries best left untouched.

I try to hide from the knowing,

but it’s always there to be read as easily as a book.

Even after all these years of being right,

I still doubt my ability,

because everything is not what it seems.

Pretty little pictures on a screen,

rotting from the inside,

Salvador Dali was a prophet.

What I’m trying to say is,

even if I don’t let on,

I know.

I know what you’re really feeling.

I don’t always understand the message,

let's be fair, neither do you.

Not everyone speaks their feelings in a known language,

but energy is universal.

So please remember,

I may pretend I don’t know,

but I do.

Everything is not as it seems.

My hand trembles as I write this. I wonder what you’ll think of me. But I have to do this, don’t I? I’ve spent so many years of our life together pretending to be happy. Pretending I didn’t hurt when I was bleeding inside. Pretending not to shiver in the cold distance between us.

It’s minute six now. He’ll be home soon, I hope. I keep writing.

I know it isn’t fair to tell you now. Perhaps, if there’s time, we can talk things over. But you’re likely underground by now. By the time you get home, it may be too late.

I wish we’d never met. I wish we’d never married. I wish we hadn’t made so many promises to each other. We were too young and selfish. Then we had kids, and I wasn’t able to be selfish anymore. I had to change. But you didn’t. So I sacrificed myself and watched you thank me for it. I’ve hated you for that for a long time now.

I know it isn’t fair to say these things now. I should have been more honest. I shouldn’t have told you I was fine. I shouldn’t have blamed my feelings on fatigue. I should have blamed your apathy. I should have blamed your ignorance. I don’t regret blaming your mother.

I can’t go on. It’s minute thirteen now. Wet drops smear the “m” in mother and I wipe my eyes. I can’t write this. I crumple the paper and toss it into the fireplace. I grab a fresh sheet and start again.

Dear husband,

Thank you for a wonderful life.

I look at the clock. Minutes tick by. Sixteen, seventeen. I shake my head. No more lies. No more pretending. I stare at the eight words on the paper in front of me. I cross them all out before shredding the paper into bits. This is harder than I thought it would be.

But I start anew.

If I could go back in time to the day we met, I would have set my alarm properly. I would not have overslept and missed the 8 o’clock train. I wouldn’t have gotten coffee at the cart close to my job instead of taking my usual detour to the French café up the street. I wouldn’t have spilled my coffee when the cheap cup folded in my hand. I wouldn’t have gone to the ER for third-degree burns. I wouldn’t have met you on the way out as you were coming in, bleeding from the hand because you sliced off your finger. I would not have forgiven your cheesy pick-up line about the “hands of fate,” because I would not have heard it. I would not have taken your number, fallen in love, and married. I would not have chosen you at all.

I swallow the bile in my throat. Thoughts that only ever swirled in my head look so cold and cruel on paper. I don’t feel any release when I read them. They don’t feel quite right. I glance at the clock. Minute thirty. The halfway mark. I’m running out of time.

I’ve often wondered what my life would have been like if I had never met you, never married you. Would I be fulfilling all of my dreams? Would I be happy? Would I feel accomplished? I was so much prettier before. And thinner.

I stare at our family portrait on the wall. My husband, our two daughters, and me. Smiles and missing teeth and hidden frustrations, suspended in a moment.

What if I had never met you? Instead of waiting at home for you as you attended classes that I begged you not to take, I might have been dancing with my friends. Instead of carrying all of our financial burdens as you waited for “just the right opportunity,” I might have been taking a trip to some exotic place, or experiencing good food and music.

Were I not married to you, I am sure I would have taken better care of myself. Still…

I sniff and wipe my face. Sip some water. Fend off a panic attack. Sniff some more. Suck in a haggard breath. Try again.

Still… I wonder if I would have been happy. Would I have been satisfied with a quiet, empty house? A worry-free life? Would I have missed the sweet kisses from our daughters if I never knew them to begin with? Would I be satisfied with the sounds of the night, instead of the sounds of you snoring beside me?

Would I notice how little I spoke if I weren’t nagging you about the dishes, the laundry, the garbage? Another date night at the movies? Another spill in the car because someone forgot to use a sippy cup? Would my heart ache when I passed by a mother and her child, or would I shrug and be content? Am I being too harsh? If I had never met you, would I still hate my life?

I toss this version of my truth as well. According to the clock, I have seventeen minutes left. A fresh sheet and several tissues later, I try again.

Once upon a time, there was a shy little girl who wanted everything but was too afraid to ask for anything. One day, a sweet boy came to her and offered her his heart. She took it gladly and gave the boy her heart as well. The boy’s love pulled the shy little girl out of her shell and helped her to grow. She became more confident and bold. She began to feel as though she deserved everything she wanted. So she began to ask for it. But the boy did not give her everything. Whether he could not or would not is hard to know, but eventually, his sweet, childlike love was not enough for her. She felt unhappy, but she also felt guilty. Had it not been for the boy’s love, she would not have thought she deserved anything better. She felt both grateful and resentful. It left her feeling stuck. Then, one day, a fairy came to the girl and told her she had come to the end of her life. She had but an hour to live and should say her goodbyes.

The girl was very angry. There was so much more she wanted to do and be and feel. She decided to write a letter to the boy. He should know that he was to blame for her unhappiness. But as she wrote the letter, she began to feel differently. The closer her life inched towards the end, the more her thoughts cleared. She thought less and less of the places and food and career she had wanted. She thought of the night her mother died. How ugly she looked as she wept. How sweetly the boy had kissed away her tears and held her. She thought of the day her daughter was in the hospital sick, and how the boy’s hand had never left hers. She thought about the family vacation that went horribly wrong, and how they had all laughed and laughed in spite of it. More than the thrill of exotic food, she would miss the hard, bitter taste of her daughter’s first batch of biscuits made from scratch. The spaces between her teeth as she grinned proudly. The sweet notes left in books and on dressers that reminded her that she was loved unconditionally. Just because. Suddenly, the sweet boy’s sweet love didn’t seem so insignificant anymore. And her life didn’t feel like such a waste after all.

I read the words again and again. This is the one. Five minutes left. I fold the letter and place it on the desk while I look for an envelope. I wish we had organized the office supplies. Too many precious seconds are wasted looking for the small, note sized envelopes we send thank you cards in. I return to the letter and place it in the envelope, sealing it with a kiss. I pace nervously in front of the fireplace as the minutes tick by. Why isn’t he here yet? Will I get to see him one last time?

The door clicks, and I drop the letter. The fire pops and singes the envelope, but I don’t notice it. Only him. The clock begins to chime. Seven seconds. No time. I stare at my husband as the letter burns. He smiles and tosses his coat over a chair. Five seconds. This is it. Three seconds. My mind goes blank, and I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.

“Hang up your coat.”