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; and I watch love, hate, greed, ambition, suffering and yearning that are both wings and nemesis to life. And my tales have wings made of but those feathers.
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