sometimes we think before we speak, but not often enough

Everyone is born with wings.
People usually learn how to fly by the time they’ve matured, physically and mentally. That’s what’s supposed to happen. Being able to soar through the sky, knowing where to go and how to get there, is proof of success and the happiness that follows, the ultimate goal. But for some reason, I feel like someone tore at my wings while I was still in an inchoate stage of development. I’ve toppled into the sea without any means of rescue, and I can already feel myself slowly, slowly drowning. I’m tired, sometimes sad, and always suffocating from the monotony that faces me. When did the hopelessness first worm its way into my life? When did I begin to choke on the water that endlessly swirled around me? I don’t remember, can’t remember, and sometimes, I wonder if the salt water that stings my eyes is from the ocean or from my own uncontrollable tears. And above is me is the sun, so pointlessly bright and high in the sky that it’s a miracle I haven’t yet snapped under the pressure.

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