I love to fly. Even if there is always an element of trust that I must always count on, I will never give up flying. Sometimes flying is harder than other times. Sometimes I can only get a few feet off the ground. But mostly I can fly higher than treetops. I can soar; the only sound is air rushing by my ears. My eyes love the view. My skin loves the wind. My breath loves to wick away with the air flow over my face.
Sometimes I hate landing. When it’s hard and bumpy and parts of me break off, I cry until I’m fixed. Sometimes I land by softly falling into outstretched hands, gentle and always happy to hold me. I prefer those landings.
I am a simple being of simple desires and ideas. I am not grandiose. I am not flamboyant or made of odd and exciting angles, though I know of those who are. I am distinct and useful. I provide hours of entertainment while doing what I love best. I seem to please whomever I am partnered with all over the world, and have for quite some time. I am loved. I never cease to amuse and test limits.
Then comes a time when I sit for years, unused, seemingly forgotten, and it is at this time I am sad, defeated, wondering if my trust and faith will be acknowledged or rewarded.
But it always is. There always comes a moment when darkness turns to light, when kind hands repair and strengthen me, when daylight bursts upon my senses and I excel in that first long awaited jump into the air. I then breathe. I spread myself as far as my perfectly formed body can extend and I laugh, I soar, I dive, I live with every filament of my being. To my utter and profound satisfaction, that is the instant I truly grasp the greatness of happiness.
I love to fly.
Of course this is also a metaphor for being a writer...
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Photo from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cirrus_sky_panorama.jpg