tmbt memoirs: the last attempt
It began as it usually did. The sensation of rising above the blankets, the bed, my own body. The sensation of pulling, of being pulled, of being pulled upon. By something. Something entirely too close and altogether light years away. And the sound. I remember once describing it to my father when I was younger as a cross between unearthly screaming and a train roaring, racing, running through the heart of me.
He had told me once that he had begun praying for me then, when I told him of the floating, the tipping, the terrifying feeling that something was pulling at me, trying to get me to leave, trying to tear me from my own life. I don’t suppose I said all of those things then, that I understood them then. But he did. And he began asking that they not take me, that I stay put. And now, as I awoke in – or rather, above – my new bed 1,083 miles away in that sleepy-turned-bubbling mountain town, I knew exactly what it was, too. But it didn’t matter too much.
It was the last time of the several when they reached for me, hoping to have back the songs and the flights and the starlit dancing. It was the last time they tempted their own fates by stretching through the veil. Because it was the last few days of my life spent with my heart in-tact.
Photo found here.