Monday, August 29, 2011
I am like a wounded albatross and you were the sky; you mocked my folly, mocked my fall and embraced the sun. I sit here amongst the rocks wishing for the ability to soar again and prove to you that you have no power to belittle me. Your sun will set each night, but me, if I could fly, am not held to any time of the day; I will soar beneath the moon and stars. This metaphor is a poor example of truth; sadness, broken, wounded - my soul is in error. It is faulted. It is hindered by the ability to see beyond what is in front of me. I feel bound and besotted by nothing. I am cut off from the freedoms I knew once upon a time. I am forced to adhere to this new sphere of broken hopes and wounded wings. I do not exist here as I did before and when you came, you changed it all. I yearn for you like none other. I need you. So, go ahead and mock me now and chase your setting sun - follow the edge of the horizon in vain. When you reach the edge of your lungs, gasping for air, feeling defeated, then turn to me and see my broken wings and know which of us is the fool. I will not be mocked by you. I may have been bound and besotted by nothing, but I'll be damned if you have the last laugh. I will rise above this. I will reclaim this metaphorical sky and when I do, I will be unstoppable. There is nothing left for you to do to me; once so broken, there is only repair. What else can you do? Your sun is gone now, fool. Try to reclaim the warmth from the moon and realize it will never come. I'll be fine. I'm no longer bound, or besotted, but simply recovering.