Realization

By A. Fleury

I have come to a realization tonight.

I am lying upon the ground with the remains of my wings. I have come to a realization tonight and it fills me with laughter, laughter so bitter it burns the throat.

All of this means nothing. The art, the songs, the joy, the pain, the accomplishments, the failures, the tragedies, the LOVE.

I'm sick of living in a world of lies, an existence of dust.

I try, as do they, to build a pair of wings. Feathers I have found and taken, beautiful feathers, that I tie together with strings of dreams and mount upon a bonework of hope. I have tried, as do they, to fly.

But the weight won't hold. I fall. I get up again, broken, crying, I get up again and re-tie re-tie, retry to fly; I fall again. Such is life. A blue sky that can never be reached. A blue sky that is utterly empty.

I have curled in a realization, lying amongst the remains of shattered wings, I have come to realize life is futility. A joke maybe, a joke for dry lips to cackle at. I have come to a realization but my fingers?

The fingers of my body, the mindless shell created from a world of dust? They twitch upon the ground to find a string and they tie. They tie strings of dreams to feathers to mount upon a framework of hope.

Fingers worked to the bone.

For nothing.

I have come to a realization and the realization means everything - it means NOTHING.

I get up to fall again.