"Wings Waiting for Flight"
Note: Started out as a sort of introspective on myself, then changed. It's short and semi-simple. Haven't decided how much of it is actually non-fiction/prophethetic of my own life.
As children, people imagine they can fly; they long for flight. She was no child, but she imagined often that she had wings. They were there, she knew they were, hidden beneath the skin, waiting to push out and stretch for the skies. One day it would happen, they’d push through the skin, and stretch out with a wingspan much greater than her arm span. She’d move them slowly at first, testing them out, then faster and stronger, until finally she was no longer touching the ground, but taking flight.
Maybe it wasn’t just the flight that she dreamed of, but the freedom. Freedom from the responsibilities of her confining life that was what she really wanted. She wanted to see the world, go places no one in her family had ever thought of going with any hit of actually going through with it. She would do it, she would see the world, and she would be free, belong to herself and no one else. That was what she told herself, but every step she took in life seemed to drag her away from her dreams and tie her down to a world she never wanted.
She was successful in a world she tried countless times to abandon. Performing on a stage in a role and a play she never wanted to take part in. The spectators looked on and said how her life was going all according to plan. They talked of her as though she chose everything that happened, as though she prepared herself all along for the luck that befell her. ‘Luck,’ ‘according to plan,’ all of that was bullshit to her. Her success was her parents’ pride and her own misfortune, and, for all that she called mistakes, she was being led closer and closer to the happily ever after of the stupid princesses in fairytales.
Happily ever after for her would be a warm coat and a pair of skis or a parachute and plenty of altitude. There was no big white house with blue shutters and acres of green fields in her dreams. She didn’t want marriage and children. She wanted African safaris and backpacking through Europe or South America. Moscow and Tuscany, they were the places she wanted to live, not in a small house in the suburbs. No house in the mountains would ever take the place of the villa in her mind.
She knew she was far too introspective and she knew she daydreamed far too often, but she knew just as well how to hide these actions from those around her. Focused eyes and the occasional agreement when a person seemed to slow in their speech covered for any lack of attention. She thought about herself, how her mind worked, her dreams for the future, the sort of things she would like to do someday, and how the things she disliked in the world around her. Her thoughts were self-centered overly critical of her surroundings.
It was unfortunately this indulgence in daydreams and introspection that led her to the decision that she would just pack up her bags and leave. There would be no note for her dear parents or a farewell to her current beau. She would be thoughtless and cared very little for being such. Life would be hers for the taking, and she would take heavily of it. It would be her fine wine and she would drink only of the nectar of the gods.
If only she had learned to think things through a little better.