A Missed Flight

Stranded. I mean, depends on how you look at it. Today’s the day I officially become a real adult and make altering decisions I assume. The internal jubilance for this newly found freedom overshadows the accruing recycled bags under my eyes. I mean hey, I look like shit, but still have the good spirit to not freak the fuck out when most people would have lost it by now. So, back to that seven-letter word—stranded. I felt stranded. Like my bright green Amazonian in his dim green cell, or a murderer on death row reminiscing happier times; both have the desire to fly. Leave all the commodities of a mere existence in captivity. Aimless travelers drift through the barren halls, and I only wonder if they feel the same flame burning deep in their gold embroidered chamber. Going on a plane is the closest form of flying we have, but knowing that when you step out that accordion-like maze, the external essence of the atmosphere is the turn of a new page at the very least. Who knows what this “city of roses” will bring. Hopefully, I’ll be happy to bloom among them


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