Flight

You're above the clouds and the flutter of your wings remind you of this gift you have. It breaks the silence as you float through white and savour the blue and twirl just before you dive into the hues of red and gold, left in the set sun's wake. You're glad to be alive.

The yellow of the sunrise is igniting the passion of flight in you all over again the next morning and so you begin your frollicking tumble through the cushion of clouds, your mind fueled by the independence of your choice and the conviction of being true to yourself. So it continues.

And then, one day, when the typewriter sounds its last full stop, you are struck by the heavy, impenetrable, once comforting, silence, caught up there and no amount of jumping is pushing the curtain of solitude away.

So you look around, in a desperate bid to remember why you chose this life and the memory doesn't serve the purpose of its reminder and you flounder. And you are cruising through the skies, yearning to go home because this familiarity is no more than a house, holding your secrets and you want the walls to break.

But where do you fly to? You look behind, there is nothing but empty space because in your urgency to get to the sun, you left too much, far below. Will you dare to descend?

And one fine moment you take the leap and wonder what meets you halfway? The kite you outflew, come to stake its claim and you smile. It wraps around your wrist and cuts you awake because the eventual plunge may be on the same floor but your flight has just begun.

You ask yourself, would you still write if noone were to ever read it? 

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