Once upon a time, when the sky was still azure and not grey and red was simply a colour used to describe poppies, there lived a man on the edge of the world.
He was speaking to me. He told me things that were obvious but had never occurred to me before. He said that my happiness could not be created by someone else. I could be the only one to create it and destroy it. He held a secret in the palm of his hand. As I stared into his eyes, they crinkled into one of those comfortable smiles that I had begun to love. The promise was secured by my putting my hand into his and choosing to walk those miles that had been the distance between us. Now they were simple roads of companionship. It was beautiful. It was a dream. I wanted to wake up and smell the fresh air but not the reality. He told me that I needed to stop looking for approval from others for the means I used to attain my happiness.
I told him I wanted to fly. He asked me if I had tried. I said the ground held me back. He said I was scared of the skies. I took off, circled once and tumbled into his arms. He laughed and held me tight. I was restless, too restless. One's own restlessness becomes too much sometimes. It's almost like a heavy object that one is constantly carrying, but not holding. You can pour it back and forth in some place in your soul. Solitude sometimes, is the only reason a mind gets chances to reflect. I wondered if babies cared. Then I was running. I broke free of his embrace and sprinted towards the sea. I took off right before the waves could get a chance to lap at my feet. I soared out over the blue. He had said I could create happiness. I wanted to do it for him. I wanted to do it for me. I didn't want it for us. So I set out on a fruitless search of happiness for him, which only I could create.
Now, the skies are grey. My wings are covered with tar and red is the colour of blood.
