read my mind

Here's something I wrote sometime ago; last week I think. Take note it's pretty weird. Perhaps this supports the result of the quiz I took in my previous post. Don't judge my writing too much; this is pretty raw and unpolished.

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Wings are heavy. Most of us who have wings are better off without them. Only those who can fly are heralded as heroes and angels; those of us who can't are freaks.

The transition from freak of nature to God-sent angel is arduous; in order to learn how to fly, some subject themselves to the most dangerous training. Winged bodies are found of the bottoms of cliffs; the tangled mass of bloody feathers and flesh. The government had been tired of sending out personnel to clean up the bodies, until someone had the bright idea to create a department consisting of only wingeds to handle all these cases. They're still undecided as to whether to label these cases suicides or accidents. The government hopes that members of the department will be deterred from learning to fly, at witnessing the bloodshed.

Me? Thankfully my wings are small enough; I can hide them under thick clothes. Sure, there're the latest fashion lines which incorporate slits for us to display our wings in their full 'glory', but I prefer to keep a low profile. Besides, it's a theory of mine that these outfits were designed specifically to single us out. But that's just my theory.

Back to my small wings. I guess you could say they make me a freak among freaks; normal wings look like those of angels in the old pictures. Mine are still heavy though. My brother's are full-sized, yet he's been able to fly even from a young age. He used to taunt me about it, but he knows now that simply going out and going about his heroic duties irks me more.

Still, in a way I'm thankful for my small wings. I've seen middle-aged wingeds with hunchbacks; I would not want to end up like that. It's little wonder then, that those who do have the ability to fly have spectacular physiques that leave me more than a little envious.

Sometimes, I consider going for the surgeries to remove my wings, especially when people seem to be staring more than usual at me. But then I remember I'm not rich enough, and besides, death rates in the surgical procedure are alarmingly high. I wonder why they still do it, though. Maybe they want to die normal, wingless.

I recall an experience years ago, when my brother and I celebrated our sixth birthday. I wanted to prove that I could fly too, so I went up to the roof and jumped. It may have been my imagination, but I recall my wings flapping once, twice, and I was lifted up above the house for a few moments. My wings refused to budge after that, and I crashed into the dry grass below.

Apparently it was my brother who saved me; he carried me to the nearest clinic for wingeds. My parents, non-wingeds, were amazed by his awe-inspiring feat, and from then on, they were able to differentiate between the two of us; they'd had much trouble doing so in our toddler years. Of course, the similarities between my brother and I began to fade. I have another theory; my brother could have caught me before I crashed, but for reasons unknown to me, did not. But everytime I think that I shake it out of my head.

I guess I do owe my life to my brother, even though our relationship is almost non-existent. When I remember this childhood event, I am filled with gratitude. However, there's nothing I can give him that he doesn't already have, so all I can offer is a weak smile.

I like to walk down the streets when it's cold at night. The occasional breeze that passes through me reminds me of the few moments when I had managed to fly, the moments I can never relive.

Some non-wingeds want wings, they like to think they can handle the extra weight. And perhaps they can, but we'll never know.

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Weird, huh?

posted by Ryan at 11:17:00 pm