If I could invent myself, arrive in the world from a blast or by a divine hand, but invent myself, have some say in anything at all.
Bullfrogs and wings and not busting their asses.
After a time, I might reconsider the whole thing, my existence in this world or another. I might begin to wonder if I could reinvent those around me, train them to my will. In short, I might go crazy and stay drunk on creation and power and wrath.
Pillars of salt and fires and floods.
It would be nothing holy, though, unless you look to the heavens and see stars and constellations and then something more, a light brighter than can be seen by those still bitter for having been born without permission.
But I would have chosen to arrive, make my own North Star and follow it wherever my newly made heart might decide.
Solitude and loneliness, beyond imagination.
If a bullfrog had wings -- hadn't thought of that one in a long time. At 60, my well-traveled heart is so tender it is like a chicken breast paillard, flat and thin, with tiny tear holes in it. A newly made heart sounds grand.
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