A bird is not supposed to crawl like a caterpillar. Wings. Wings are more than a body part here. Wings are the wildness of his mind. Wings are the freedom that runs in his blood. Wings remain. You cannot cut them off by just chopping them or just folding them. There is this moment. The skies call him. A glance towards the strip of the starlit black sea and the wings in him proclaim his free spirit.
Maybe he never touches the pole star again. But he still flies over the ocean. His mind. You cannot cage his heart in his ribcage.
I try so hard. I try not to be me. The voice in my head is the only sound that is able to command me. The moment I feel they are trying to hold me back.. I become like the young filly. The loop around my neck makes me want to sprint. I sprint. The craziness becomes me.
Maybe he never touches the pole star again. But he still flies over the ocean. His mind. You cannot cage his heart in his ribcage.
I try so hard. I try not to be me. The voice in my head is the only sound that is able to command me. The moment I feel they are trying to hold me back.. I become like the young filly. The loop around my neck makes me want to sprint. I sprint. The craziness becomes me.
1 comment:
From "a clueless speck with no desire, floating away in the wind wherever it takes" to "a free sprinting filly which sprints not because its meant to but because it wants to" in one post?
You sure are a person of seasons.
On second thoughts, both the speck and the filly chose to be that way.
Is the filly sprinting towards something or its merely absconding.
hmm..I dont think Im makng much sense here.
Nice post nonetheless.
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