A body as a possibility
There had always been something buzzing underneath their skin. It was like the tap-tap-tap of an insistent bird at a window, convinced that if it just kept aiming for the same spot, the glass would eventually break. They felt there was some barrier within them, destined to crumble eventually, that their thoughts kept tapping at, certain that they could see some blurred possibility beyond. Hundreds of little wonders and whispers rained down like hail, all asking if there was more beyond their mortal form, if their skin could stretch and consume and take the shape of something else. Or perhaps they could move past shapes altogether and become something entirely new.
And then one afternoon, while standing in a shaded grove, they imagined what it would be like to be amongst the greenery, to bathe in sunlight and sprawl beneath the earth, to be one with the thicket and the trees and the flowers blooming. In that moment it was all they wanted. Please. All they had to do was ask, and their body finally listened, digging down and sprouting roots, and they felt whole.
A body as a bush
There was a termite on their left shoulder. They felt it burrow into a crease in their skin? body? bark? but they found they did not mind the brush of its teeth. No, it was nice to feel useful, to know their new form could be the impetus for something beyond them. Underneath them, their roots stretched and burrowed channels in the dirt, and they wondered if they could reach the place that had been their home from here. They imagined the nutrients flowing towards them were for more than just their own sustenance but instead for the termites and the caterpillars and the birds and the roses that stretched their petals, like rubied palms splayed up to the sky.
They felt its weight, all wrought iron and sharpened crystal, trying to pull them down, but they arched their back to stay upright and swore to themself that it would not shatter.
A body as a church
Perhaps they had expected to feel larger, grander than they were. Perhaps they had expected the walls of their new body to bend and curve under the weight of a grand new revelation, of space occupied yet still unseen. They just felt like brick and mortar. However, the chandelier was lovely, a marvel of glass and metal, sparkling like captured tears. And though it was clearly manmade, it felt holy, certainly more so than the altar or the crucifix. They felt its weight, all wrought iron and sharpened crystal, trying to pull them down, but they arched their back to stay upright and swore to themself that it would not shatter. It only moved a bit in the breeze, but the sound it made was like the soft whisper of rainfall after a year of drought.
A body as a breeze
One moment, they were supporting the wings of birds and butterflies and beetles, and the next, they were sweeping through the grass and making it whistle. They made great towers quiver under their touch and felt the air around them twirl past and through the notches of their spine. It was thrilling to feel the rush of movement, to be gentle one moment then ferocious the next. When they entered a body as a breath, as a laugh, as a gasp, they marveled at its intricacies, at the tapestry of nerves and muscle that adorned its walls. They marveled at the life and form they had left behind, raw and red and glistening, and felt a little sorry that they had not appreciated it while they had it. That feeling always dissipated when they were exhaled back into the atmosphere and they remembered that what they loved about a body could only be appreciated outside of one.
A body as a burden
They had been so many things that they weren’t sure if they wanted to be anything anymore. Their initial form had been lost, and their body, if it could be called that anymore, existed between states, only coalescing into one form with conscious effort. To be even a blade of grass took extraordinary will. It felt like they were forcing the ocean to lay still, and they could always feel the energy and the urge to expand. It would be easier to be a field; they were beyond containment or confinement.
Someone had warned them that this would happen, long ago, back when they had been human. They remember small moments from that lifetime, meals at a dinner table, a ceiling above their head, a face in a mirror. They had a definite end, a boundary where their form stopped and the rest of the world began. But the whole time, they had felt too light, too hollow, like they were just an amalgamation of bird bones, meant to float but instead stuck stubbornly to the ground.
They had unlocked a world of possibilities, too many to find, too many to know, and they had savored what they could: flown with the birds, tangled with the clouds, stared down the sun without needing to blink.
Yes, transformation was dangerous or even foolish, and perhaps their mortal vessel had only been meant to carry one form instead of many. They admitted that they had gone past the limits and now were left loose and languid. Yet it did not feel unpleasant. They had unlocked a world of possibilities, too many to find, too many to know, and they had savored what they could: flown with the birds, tangled with the clouds, stared down the sun without needing to blink. And now their final wish was not to be something new but instead to be nothing, to simply be as wide and endless as the sky.
