A paper plane is simple. It could be a note for somebody. It could be crumpled up, in pursuit of folding a more perfect version. It is juvenile, floating in the air, with one purpose. It is meant to fly somewhere. And then, there is the hurricane. It is wind and debris and grief. It picks up our plane and turns it in to a pulp, shaping our little note in to something unrecognizable. Shouting, "You wanted to fly, right? Well, aren't you still flying?". Sometimes, I feel like we may be paper planes. Folded up all pretty, lofting down gently with one intention. To feel, to be a person. And then, we get stuck in the storm. We go around and around, without rest. It never lets us go, never lets us stop flying. We knew we were supposed to live, but we were never prepared for how much it would all be.
A paper plane is simple. It could be a note for somebody. It could be crumpled up, in pursuit of folding a more perfect version. It is juvenile, floating in the air, with one purpose. It is meant to fly somewhere. And then, there is the hurricane. It is wind and debris and grief. It picks up our plane and turns it in to a pulp, shaping our little note in to something unrecognizable. Shouting, "You wanted to fly, right? Well, aren't you still flying?". Sometimes, I feel like we may be paper planes. Folded up all pretty, lofting down gently with one intention. To feel, to be a person. And then, we get stuck in the storm. We go around and around, without rest. It never lets us go, never lets us stop flying. We knew we were supposed to live, but we were never prepared for how much it would all be.
