I am jealous, supremely so, of those whose life is handed to them on a silver platter: whole, and unblemished.
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Intelligence, beauty, love, security, a whole belief system, customs and traditions are given to them. And they, without a second thought embark on the fateful journey heavily and joyfully equipped with pre-exstence's gifts.
I have nothing, nothing at all. I hang onto a precarious life by attenuating thread. Knowing forever, no matter how hard my muscles ache or my fingers bleed, I will never reach those born high in falconhursts and painted bowers.
In this agony of mind, just enough to dream, and only dream, to see the lofty sentiments flying high above and around, all I have ever wished. They flit pass me, feathery light caresses against my cheeks. How I long to touch them! Yet if I reach out and does, I shall fall deep into the dark abyss below, beset with the same-lost, determined, weary dreaming souls, I shall fall. I can hear their cries of despair, of encouragement. "Go," I hear voices of whispery strength, "Go up high and soar into the skies, enter the mountain king's hall."
The white fluttering things continue to pass me, drawing and destracting me at the same time. Their ethereal beauty, the perfume in their wake leaves me dizzy with desire that I feel my neck arching backwards, wanting to fall into the arms of eternal gravity.
And yet then I see, they are hiding something, they are consealing those climbing up above me. Furthering on, other's laughter and lightsness slid down, crashing my face, gagging my dry throat. Their coloful packs glimmered vibrantly in the morning sun, thousand dollar ice picks and carabiners a brilliant white fire from afar, so alike the white fire I will to burn in.
I cannot breathe, I cannot move, frozen with envy, there I hang, immobile, feeling soft wings getting stuck on my cheek.
Ah the cool wind, may you be an upward draft, carry me now, please, just like in the old stories.
The conscious shape reality.