Wings

They can get me irrationally harrowed for days on end. I want them. I want them badly. I want wings.

I want my wings back.

There are times where my back itch for limbs I no longer have. When I hunch my back, I get conscious of avoiding hitting my wings on the ceiling. They stretched far, and they stretched high whenever I got exhausted. They got cramps if I sat around for too long, folding them into a more portable form, for the convenience of everyone involved. They got stuffy and sweaty on the hotter days; they felt like a sweater you couldn't take off.

They appear in my dreams a lot. In my dreams, I soar through the sky alongside eagles and the great Rukh, better known in the western world as the Roc, like it was second nature. Probably because it was. Perhaps the beast mistaken for a floating mountain was once a friend of mine, or probably just an acquaintance. I don't know, I forgot.

I forgot a lot. Most frustratingly, I forgot my days when I had my wings. What happened to them? Who took them from me?

Sometimes I got horrible glimpses of a past when my wings were stripped off of me. Perhaps it was an angry deity, or perhaps it was the guillotine of faith. Perhaps my mind was making it up, or perhaps it was still hidden somewhere deep inside my mind.

What is certain is that I did have wings. I knew it. I can feel the phantom feathers cutting through the sky sharper than the blade, sharper than the pen, sharper than the tongue. I flew freely. I flew, and I was happy.

I used to be happy all the time. And then the ground came up to me and I was sad. I couldn't remember much, but I do remember not being happy a lot. I remember people; something I never got glimpses of from the days of my winged past. I remember talking and shouting and crying and being miserable. I also remember laughing, but with my feet upon the ground, it never felt the same.

With my feet upon the ground, I get jittery. I get restless. I get the strongest urge to jump and spread my wings and just enjoy my life in the skies. But when I jump, I find myself falling, because my wings are gone.

Someone took my wings, long ago, to the time I couldn't remember. But, then again, I don't remember things well. I forget a lot.

Someone took my wings, and I couldn't care less who they were. Actually, I do care, because they'd know where my wings are. They can give them back.

I want my wings back. I want them dearly. I want them badly.

I want them. I get irrationally harrowed for days on end thinking about the lack of them from my back.

Wings.

Comments

[Reese]

Huh. Interesting.
I'm afraid I'm not sure what else to say, though.