Histoire courte
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The Grief of Losing Your Wings

*Please keep in mind that English isn't my first language*

I knew how to fly. Yesterday. Not anymore.

I had very beautiful and very wide wings, and people came up to me and told me that I flew wonderfully. And I liked that a lot, because I had never flown before and I didn’t know how I knew how to fly. But I flew, and that was enough. The soft breeze took over me, my cheeks reddened, I spun in the air, I was perfect, and the world was perfect. So, I showed my wings everywhere and I changed the perspective everyone had about me. I was invited to parties with people who knew how to fly, and they told me that that was the best part of myself, to never change, and they gave me a diploma to hang up on my wall. And I smiled, because the unspeakable pain of holding your entire body in something ever so delicate that you feel you will just fall into the cold, cruel ground, finally made sense. And so, I flew, I flew, and I flew as much as I possibly could and I became something of like a new born star that rested on the clouds. When night fell and all of my friends went to sleep, I tried to stay awake, because this was the real dream. However, I wasn’t able to handle the tiredness, and I immediately fell asleep.

Today I woke up, I smiled, and I went to fly. But, unexpectedly, I fell onto the ground, and I felt like I had betrayed myself, so with a forced smile I told the people- the public- asking me if I was fine that I in fact was, fine, I was better than ever, of course I was better than ever, it’s just that I hadn’t slept, and that I was going to try again. So, I tried again, and this time instead of soaring, I crashed with a metal-like sound. This time, I truly hurt myself, and they started worrying. They, as if it was a life-or-death matter, took me with urgency to see my friends, who, confused, told me to do what I had done yesterday. I nodded, and I just walked away, humiliated, because the answer was that I didn’t know what I had done yesterday. As if trying to gasp for air, I tried remembering the position of my feet, the movement of those wonderful, beautiful wings of mine, but my only technique was letting myself be stroked by the air and praying it would stay that way for long enough. And, without even realizing, I was no longer perfect, and the world was no longer perfect. And I didn’t know how to change that or what to do. And, in my terrace, sitting on my grave, I watched my identity slip away from my control, and fall, fall, fall until it started disintegrating little by little. I watched as they took away my diplomas, I watched them hold back their compliments and congratulations, and I watched them erase me from their memory and cut me out from the pictures I was in. And, soon enough, I realized that I had become a watcher, like the public was, and that the only thing I could do from now on was to watch. When I went to see my alleged “friends”, I felt like the elephant in the room, because, without me knowing, they were now heroes. And the heroes, who spent their time next to me bragging about their new trophies and achievements, still had the heart of gold to look at me with pity in their eyes. And, the heroes dared to say, with a passionate, compassionate voice, that “not everything is flying”, but what they don’t understand is that flying was everything. And I couldn’t fly anymore, and I can’t fly anymore. I’ve seen myself forced to take out cardboard boxes and to put in them my trophies, achievements, aspirations, goals, and everything I was slightly proud of in order to make place for the Flying for Beginners books they’ve recommended me to buy. As I sit down to read them, the weight of every skill required for flying that I lack keeps me sat down and prevents me from moving. And, as I read it, I wonder how I was able to be so majestic without knowing any of this. I hold on to as if it were a lifeboat to a distorted memory, to an impossible fantasy. To the version of myself I would rather be right now. To the version of myself they think I will be able to be, someday, again. To the version of myself I would never remember how I played.

2 Août 2022 15:35:17 0 Rapport Incorporer Suivre l’histoire
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A propos de l’auteur

E E Writing because speaking is very complicated Ig: ee_author Follow me on instagram for more content/ Sígueme en Instagram para más contenido y una galletita 🍪 :))

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