Falling. A sensation close to flying. The grass hold out its arms, but slices my wings as it laughs with the dirt. Panic courses through my lungs as they gasp for rhythmic inflation. With the condition of my wings, it is said that I will never fly. Of course I will, what else were birds made for? And yet, here I lie day after day, jumping for the slightest glimpse of flying, but gravity jerks on my chains and I plummet to my near death.
And then I lie there, day after day, listening to the silent whispers of the grass and dirt, stones and twigs scream, "No!" How cruel their lesson is. I bury my face into my feathers, day after day, hoping to stop the muted screams. It doesn't, as usual. I am tormented by not only by the grass, dirt, stones, and twigs, but other graceful fliers, day after day.
My mother, my father, my brothers and sisters, jeering the words, "Flightless Dreamer!" Oh how these words have pierced my hope and faith. I dream, day after day, that I soar. That I soar, rising beyond clouds and mountains. Rising above all jeers and enemies. The grass and the dirt, the sones and twigs, eating their soundless whispers of non-believing. That I reach the stars. And the stars whisper, "Welcome back."
Then I wake, day after day, to face the cruel actuality of it all. I get up, day after day, and do as told, but not today. Today, I stand at my perch, the wind guiding, aligning my feathers, I jump from my perch. And now day after day, I right my wings, and me and my dreams, soar.