The wind serves as a vessel, transporting the leaves into the distance, parallel to the birds in constant motion.
But I can take no flight of my own.
Do you ever get the feeling that something good is always happening somewhere else?
They say my flight will take off soon.
But I’ve been on the waiting list far too long.
I’ve been watching the planes land and take off for two years now—
But the Pilot doesn’t think I’m ready to leave.
I wander around the airport to pass the time.
But it gets old. All of it.
Change is constant here. New people arriving and departing. New languages I’ve never heard before. I want to be one with the change. I need a fucking change of scenery.
But first I have to make the change within myself.
I’d rather switch airlines and find a fucking way out.
The beautiful becomes the ugly.
That’s what it means to be depressed.
I open the shades of the waiting room and try to enjoy the sun, try to appreciate the people I hate, try and love the sounds I called noise.
That’s what it means to make an effort.
I close the shades of the waiting room and bury my head in my hands once more.
That’s what it means to relapse. Again.
I keep checking the boards for my flight.
It’s not listed.
However... I’m done complaining, too.
Patience is not my forte.
But I’m telling you—
I
am
doing
the
best
I
can.
