Snippets of Life

Paper Wings

It is silent and slow-
It creeps up on you when you do not know it; oozes into the cracks you have so carelessly left in your bones-
It will kill you, if you let it.

It is silent, it is bleak-
It turns your world black and instead of walking on moonbeams and sunshine you are thrown into an abyss-so dark and so quiet and you are alone, you are definitely alone.

It
Is
Silent.

But it isn't just that, no. Because while soaring through hurricanes you realise- your wings were never made of gossamer and fairy's tears.
They were never made from pixie dust or the finest silk of silkworms.
Your wings were fashioned by you, and now, only now, when you are flying through hurricanes and typhoons and storms; now, do you realise-

Your wings were made of paper.

And you were never meant for storms.

But here you are, in one.
Life is a funny thing-
It doesn't quite go according to plan and it doesn't quite go with what you think it ought to be.
If life is a road, you are walking backwards. You are walking backwards, as much as you hate it.

But you heard the storm, didn't you? It wasn't like you didn't.
And now your wings made of paper are torn and shredded beyond belief;
Mangled to the point where they perhaps may never fly again.

And at night you catch glimpses of silver butterflies flitting in the moon light- you see them fly in between periods of calm and periods of pure pain-
But the silver butterflies leave little rivers of crimson when you try and catch them.
You convince yourself the pain is good and the pain is worth it, only so that you may get another new set of wings-

But remember, life is a funny thing.
Somehow or other without pixie dust or fairy's tears, somehow, just somehow...

Your wings pull themselves together and you do too.
You tape your paper wings back together, bit by bit. Your wings don't look new; they are battered-but they are yours.
At night you still see silver butterflies- but you have your own wings now.

And then you are through the eye of the hurricane, back in the storms. Of course, your wings bend and break; they are torn apart and ripped cruelly from your back.
You fall.

And the silver butterflies are back- they tempt you at night with their beauty and one night you are almost tempted to catch one-

Life is a funny thing. Because where life gives trouble, you will flourish after.
This time you know that the storm will blow over soon-
And if they don't you have faith in your silly little paper wings. Wings that have survived thousands of storms; that have been ripped apart and torn to shreds
And yet
And yet
Your silly little paper wings always build themselves up.
And you? You tape them back together, and keep flying.

Because they may be made of paper and they may be scarred
But they are yours, and nothing else could replace them.

They are your paper wings.

[I flew through a hurricane on paper wings-but I think I'm finally finding healing. And taping my paper wings back together.]