To Soar, Oh Lord, Is All I Wait For

All I want is to take off -- explore new heights -- feel a different altitude -- but the runway is full and I wait in line to push the throttle forward and pull back the controlling lever of my idling machine. My machine has been ready for flight just as the airs above have always been visible to my eyes. Churning, sputtering, my weighted machine awaits weightless air -- but I inch forward along in my position in the back of the line.

A bird lands on my wing but finds it unfit for a perch because of its rumbling surface -- instantly taking off again. I'd like this freedom -- but my heavy metal casing won't allow me to maneuver past those waiting before me. The runway is not wide enough for such a maneuver. And my thick steel bound body is not capable of just taking to the sky -- whereas the bird is fit with such a small frame and capable of such an endeavor, I need to wait until the runway is clear to thrust forward with such a force not even the sky could deny my presence.

But, the birds are restricted to a low vertical integration -- they cannot even fathom the heights I aspire to reach. In order to travel the distance I intend to embark, they'd need a pack to follow along their predestined paths. I on the other hand -- need to fly in my own direction -- where the air I see in my mind is but so abstract as to not be able to be touched or reached at the current moment.

The birds can come and go without much disruption -- but my engines require my soul to scream -- as if saying, "I'm coming until I've passed. And then I'm gone." My destination is a set one, I desire to embrace the support of the air. Unlike the small, feeble birds I see all around me, I do not sway and flutter with the weak winds -- my capability fortified by steel wings. But steel wings only make it harder to take flight, and more force is needed -- force I have building up, space is all I need.

Once I begin my movement toward the skies -- only one thing can force me to remain grounded. But the probability of something big enough to stopping my surge is small, and the only way I won't make it is if a sizable disaster occurred where the whole frame of my being perishes. Destruction will only prove itself successful in hindering my passion for flight if my being is altogether taken. For if my body is not burned completely to ashes, it may take time to repair -- but I am a master mechanic -- and only I know which bolts to my own design go where. And even if my body crashes into flames, the pilot in me won't dare be afraid to taking up a different means of becoming airborne.

But as I sit anxiously toiling in the cockpit, I can't help but feel the air to be an abstract entity that I can see but never obtain. The concrete under my slowly revolving wheels is oh so real, but I'm don't reach for that which can be so easily attained. There is something about finding a place above my present state that I cannot abandon. The faceless passengers in the back cabin begin to complain the tardiness of my flight -- but what can I tell them?

They know the situation just as me, and the windows of the cabin cannot cover the reality presented to us all. They wait because I wait -- but their patience as well as mine is waning. They want to get to our destination and be able to step out into the world as bad as I do. But only I can take them there -- they rely on me. I am their carrier, and they are sparks in my electric system that cannot yet be seen.