Broken wings are not meant to fly

ImagenHe was there, sitting on the railing, waiting for love, death, maybe forgiveness…

It is unknown the way he climbed the railing of the third floor walkway. His legs were hanging in the air as well as his soul. His eyes were lost in the horizon, in the bluish color of his feelings. In the mean time, trees, birds, squirrels, and lizards whispered the song of wind and silence. Everything seemed peaceful and quiet until he saw himself drawing his silhouette on the asphalt. Hostage of the fear closed his eyes and imagined his mother standing by, ready to embrace his sadness in her arms.

Was loneliness a gesture or just a silent voice? Was I blind? Was I deaf?  Were his tears the reflection of his feelings screaming from the inside? When did I lose him?  When did he get lost?  I still ignore it. It took me a while to conceive his emotions not as a temporary state of mind, but as the result of a neurological chemical imbalance.

I remember seeing him sitting on the dark blue couch, looking through the glass doors that isolated the balcony from the living room. I wonder if he was doing recollections of his past. His brown eyes seemed to be staring at his mother figure, a blurry shadow in the fog about to vanish. How much he loved her. She was all he had, after his father passed away when he was just a child.

I saw him trapped in a feeling of emptiness and detachment from things that could make him happy.  All of a sudden, his self-esteem was running down as a waterfall, drowning in its waters his enthusiasm, his vitality, and his love for himself and indeed for his family. He could not see his image reflected in the water… Distorted mirrors were now part of his reality.

There were nights when he closed his eyes in an attempt of dreaming of the past. It was useless. Feelings of anxiety and desperation did not allow him to rest his tired bones. How could he stop his heart from feeling sorrow? It must have taken him years or maybe seconds to plan his cruel retaliation against life.  How can a bird with broken wings attempt to fly?

I found him lying unconscious on the floor, resting on the cement, in a stream of blood. He was depressed and I ignored it. I read the signs, but I did not understand what I was reading.

Open your eyes and heart to those who cannot let their emotions fly. Let your intuition judge, let your intuition be your interior voice. I was not deaf or blind. I was just not aware of the signs. Do not let anyone else get lost.


27 pensamientos en “Broken wings are not meant to fly

  1. Ginita me hiciste poner triste, se rompieron las alas y no pudo volar mas. Hasta ahora tengo tiempito de entrará tu blog, tu y yo sabemos el gran significado de esto. Lo mas lindo de esta historia es el gran amor de hijo y de madre que la recibe en los brazos. I love you Ginita .

  2. usted vive en los Estados Unidos? pensé que eras de Europa 🙂 su poesía toca el corazón e inspira la mente. seguir haciéndolo con el corazón 🙂

  3. Quisiera decir mucho…. Pero me dejaste sin palabras, triste pero increible tu forma de expresar un sentimento tan profundo. Te quiero mucho

  4. Too sad… But I love it!!
    This is a reality sitting next to us, but sometimes we are too busy on banalities to pay attention…


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