What was it you said about the reptilian brain? About
how you attribute your compulsions to its functions, to the folding and layering of that gray, limbic matter, about how during fight-or-flight scenarios you choose freeze. And then you mentioned something about the original wound, that cavernous, ceaseless depth to which you dive again and again, but it’s never clear why or for how long, and after prolonged safaris down there, the surface, that thin blue plane separating oxygen and hydrogen, seems not like ascension but a reversion to something more primitive, more human. And you think about those eskimos in Alaska, how they have 64 words to describe snow, and how lovely it would be to float on air, a feathery, symmetrical crystal with so many names to label yourself, and it would be so simple, so beautifully rudimentary.
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Michael O'NeillMichael O'Neill writes fiction and poetry in Chicago. His work has appeared in Maudlin House, Ghost City Press, WhiskeyPaper, Literary Orphans, Unbroken Journal and Great Lakes Review, among others. |