I stood at the end of the runway this morning. The sky was clear blue and the sun was warm and I could have lifted off in flight. But I turned away.
There’s only so many times you can be thrown down by the slightest gust before you realize it’s no more than chemical slight-of-hand. There is nothing profound or sacred in my flights of fancy. Nothing real.
Get your inspiration somewhere else. I’m stepping out of these wings. Narnia’s only a fairy story, there is no happy ending, Santa stuffed the easter bunny.
This is the big one, I fear. I’m not getting out of this one easy. It was just a trip that sent me down; but I’ve already fallen farther than I’ve been in a long, long time.
There’s something down here with me, and I don’t think it will accept propitiation.