Sometimes, I wish I could fly. Because to fly would mean to be free, and that is something my body desperately yearns for. I often dream about what freedom would taste like. Would it be a sweet nectar, smooth against my cheek? Or would it be bitter, dark and earthy — something that gets stuck in between your teeth? I want to fly. To fly away from the sorrows of today and to soar past the clouds and grasses in which I pray. I want to swoop along riverbanks and dangle my feet against the roaring currents. But I … I cannot fly. I can barely even find it in me to pray at times. I walk along the shores of life and ponder about my purpose, and even then do I wish I could just escape. From school, from life, from family … from me.
I want to be a starling: dark, beautiful and surrounded by friends. But even starlings go through times when their time meets an unlawful end. I wish to obtain their shiny, silk-woven feathers and to roam the earth with the worries of none. I want to fly away so desperately, it burns my lungs to sing. Starling patterns shine like stars. Their feathers glitter and shimmer in the moonlight, and they are the one bird that wishes to stay away. I wish I could live as a starling: brave, bold and unashamed. But sometimes, life does not lead me that way. Sometimes, it just feels like all I can do is watch from afar, sit along the riverbank, and pray … and pray … and lay.
Others call it eerie, even go as far as query the very stitchings of my being, but I cling to the thoughts of the osprey fleeing. They’re golden eyes against seamlessly blue skies, their hawk-like cries and their circling, dizzying flies. I want to fly like an osprey: powerful, strong and courageous. I just wish to find bravery before the time is nigh and I can feel the reality shift between my fingers. To escape is to seek anew, and heaven forbid that my blood falls for you, but I could never find it in me to leave.
The anger that courses through me seldom lies, I just want it to all go away. To turn its head and die. But your emotions never leave you, they always remain the same. It is the one thing that ties us to those that are insane. To feel is to be privileged, but to fly is to escape. And how I desperately cling to the idea of leaving this stage. I feel like a puppet with no strings: cold, hollow … empty. I want to get out of the way. I want to fly today. But even with the osprey cries or the starling’s fluttering of wings, at times, I am nothing but a road block, a wall that is placed to protect and shelter those around me.
You can contact Makayla Hernandez at firstname.lastname@example.org.
The views expressed in this Inside Column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.