I have been away a long time. My shoulders ache with flight. My heart is torn between them. The journey has been testing. It has been a long migration turning back on itself without touching the earth. Even my bones are dry. My eyes are caked in salt. I have seen things and perhaps that was worth the journey. I could not touch them though and I so wanted to touch them. Right now I would be happy if I never flew again. I lean in against the walls of my nest, letting a brusque breeze flow over my head. I am warm. I am safe. Here is enough.
Early in the journey I felt the excitement of a 5 year old. Anything was possible and most things probable. A vibrant energy coursed through my plump body and I felt juicy and ripe. Every little ordinary thing was a marvel. My enthusiasm fed itself. Colours were more colourful. Scents were more sharply defined. The shapes of things impressed me without effort. There came a time though when I grew deadly tired of looking. I was tired of new. I was tired of other. It didn't matter how beautiful, how ancient or how ingenuous anything was all I longed for was the familiar sight of my own scruffy nest.
My imagination has run out of batteries. Sleep refuses to assist. I hunger for a fruit that I have never tasted.
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