I believe it unfair to say she was waiting on love. I cannot even find it reasonable to say she was looking for it. She spent more time trying to define love and life; researching the specific meanings rather than feeling the rapture of specific emotions. Like others, at some point, she was defeated by feeling. She managed to rectify her detachment by being analytical.
She certainly lived a life uncommon, and never chose the paths most driven. Somewhere along the way she forgot these were her choices, and convinced herself that it never was choices, instead it was forces. She watched her friends go to college, get married, have children, and some take less positive paths. To her, all of these good things seemed unrealistic and out of reach.


It was her. She grew those wings. She took that first flight. Throughout her adventures, she lacked a sense of commitment and compassion. Upon feeling these things, she yet again, took another flight.
Some admired her. Maybe it was because she was devoid of most responsibility. Perhaps it was for all the places, people, and things she encountered. Some even mentioned notions of living vicariously through her. They even called her brave.
Yet upon nightfall and solitude, she found her thoughts leading to questions of normality; skeptics of if and how normality or co-existence would be possible. Was any of this reachable? She suddenly began to analyze herself instead of everything else.


The organism that was pinned to the dissection table was her. Those wings were spread wide on the table and pinned neatly to each corner. She inspected every feather with her magnifying glass, carefully classifying each differentiation. She lay in bed each night feeling unsettled after performing scientific studies on herself. She made amends with mistakes and began to embrace certain regrets with more optimistic eyes.


Yes, those wings took her places and insured a temporary comfort. She even felt self accomplished at times. Those wings were put to many uses. They even wrapped around her body for protection purposes, shielding her from getting hurt. She can appreciate it all. She can now recognize the dangers in flying as well as the glory.


Here she sits now, with smiles and intriguing stories.

… But in her solitude, let it be known she has only one solid dream, which is always the same old dream. She imagines being grounded and permanently rooted. Stares off thinking of permanence and how wonderful it would be if there was anything of permanence in her life. Solid. Level. Less flighty.

In her world, aerodynamics has very little to do with balance. Most flights are in fact bumpy and chopped by wicked winds, which have proven to be tricky for one with little grace.



I watch her hit a tree. I know she crashes on purpose. She’s been sick of those feathers for a long time now. She slides down the trunk and wills herself to wobble to an open field.


.. And if those roots don’t sprout she will simply dig a deeper hole, add more water, and pray for Miracle Grow.