I used to look out of airplane windows and dream about the little towns below.  Each dot I saw was a house, each house a home with beating hearts inside.  Each of the people in these homes was an incredibly brave soul.  They had made a stand, put down roots, and eked out a life.  I didn’t understand how to do that.  I was up in the air, flying over a landscape of a million possibilities.  “How do you settle for just one?” I wondered, “And how do you know when your destination has finally arrived?”

In blind panic, I have bolted from job offers and I have fled from relationships. I have looked for reasons to feel constricted, suffocated, squashed or smashed, and I have inflated those reasons with every gasp of breath inside my lungs.  I have hurt people in my sudden flight, and the weight of that hurt has wrapped tightly around me.  It has made me heavy with regret and it has slowed me down.  It has shackled me with the same restriction I wished to avoid.  I’m still flying, though.  There are hundreds of landing strips beneath me, but I am completely paralyzed, still unable to choose.

And now, with my steel wings hurtling through the air at an altitude of 30,000 feet, I am running out of gas.


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