Fly Birdie

31 Jul

As I sit up on a perch on the ledge of the 50th floor, I look down on the ants.

Not the kind of ants that carry their dead on their backs,

but the kind of ants that display their dead in their best suits over home cooked food and alcoholic beverages.

I sat there looking towards the end (where the ants are walking) and towards where the beginning was set (where the real birds fly and beyond) and I thought “Was this trip worth it?”

Questions like “Can I cash my ticket in now, get a refund and start all over again?” cross my mind.

Then I realized, to fly, one just has to let the updrafts push underneath their wings bringing them to dizzying highs and dangerous lows.

So I convinced myself that if I flapped my wings and tried to fly it would be like thirty plus years taking place in a matter of seconds.

Ground = death. Death = ground.

What is the difference if I wait for these 30 plus years to transpire or if I MAKE THEM HAPPEN IN SECONDS?!

(That day, my seed went unplanted.)

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