To fly without wings

Lost.

Sometimes I think I'm falling. That I'm going to fall and fall and that the darkness of the pit is forevermore.

Sometimes it shines light upon me and I think that there's nothing wrong with the fall - the silvery grass on reach glitters beautifully when I stumble pass and the smiles on the statues on the walls are sincere, unlike mine.

I wish I were the sculptor, but the statues were created by centuries or millenniums of random patterns appearing in the rock. So am I and that makes me all that special.

And at times I try to break free. Break free from a fall. And that does not work. All that I seem to be able to do is to harm others and make them cry even if those are not tears that tell the truth about the weeping but the deep tender hurt in their eyes.

I wish to reach the bottom, even if it's in the darkness for now and no one can tell what lies down there - deep rich mud that is soft and tender yet as bottomless as the pit itself or the city of light, hidden, yet real. To find the truth is not what I'm after. It's the clear path where I can be free and not LOST. I want to be free, I want to be me. I want to be more than a mortal shell with a ghost in it. I want to see beauty and make people smile. For a twist of makers irony has made me empathetic without a will. And what yet puzzles me is whether I chose to fall or I was pushed. And maybe, just maybe, I have wings to fly with and I just haven't discovered them yet.

I fear that I don't have time to learn to fly.

And never ever want I be the one to break the box that was given to my by godly creatures who are as ordinary as anyone.