How do I even express these wild-shy words, that skitter from my tongue as if it were a hunter? How can I speak when they all press against my throat and tongue, desperate to be heard, but willing to flee at a wrong move or sound- when I can speak again, there are no words to be found.
Even if I had the words, what would I do with them? Could they sufficiently paint all the colours and scents and sensations that are with me now?
The old Morag stands by me. She takes my hand and says 'Come on. Let's go!' I am afraid of the pain, but I will go with her now. I'll take the leap. With all these colours, and all these wild-shy words, maybe I can make myself some wings. Maybe I'll learn how to fly on the way down. Or maybe I'll just fall.
Either way. It'll be worth it.