Who am I?

 Who am I?

I get very uncomfortable by that question.

I wish I were a bird or a butterfly, flying away on wings of freedom. But beyond what meets the eyes, do the wings flap forever in bliss?

I wish I were a catcher in the rye, pulling away the humans from falling off that moral cliff. But am I my countrymen’s keeper?

I am just a watcher then. Sometimes I watch life. Sometimes I watch death. Many times I watch in between; the love, the hate, the greed, the ambition, the suffering and the yearning that are both wings and nemesis to life. And even if I don’t have them, my tales have wings made of but those fibres.


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