You Can Have Roots And Wings

     I don’t know if it is because spring promotes new growth, or the need to break free from the burdens winter seems to lock us down into, but lately I have been craving change.

     Sometimes I think about what it would be like to just pack a few bags, my guitar, and go somewhere new and exciting. Of course the sensible side of myself comes knocking and I quickly dismiss the notion to run towards the sunset on a grand adventure.
     But what if I did it?
     At what point in our lives do we choose to take the path where we don’t necessarily know the outcome, but it is in pursuit of something that we love. Whether it be a dream that we have buried, meeting new people, or simply seeing the world.
     I have always been a dreamer, sometimes to a fault because I am too busy dreaming to see an opportunity in front of me. But there has also been a sensible part of me that has kept me on stable ground. And in the last few weeks I have wondered if that “sensible” side hasn’t just been a fearful side, unwilling to move from my safe little hobbit hole.
     If I have spent most of my life believing that I am capable of great things, why is it then that I haven’t had the courage to take a step forward and seek out an adventure of my own? Even as a child, I had a fascination with angel wings, and the idea that at any moment I would be capable of flying away to find the calling I was made for.
     I always write very strong characters, whether it be in a play, script, novel, poem, or short story, I simply love to write a feisty and vivacious character. I seek that out in characters that I admire in films, books, and plays as well. There are many amazing women I am lucky to have in my life that fit that description as well, and they are all heroes in my eyes.
     Yet, in my own little world that is exactly who I’m afraid to be.
     Maybe it’s a screwed up reality that was caused by too many people telling me to be quiet, and to settle down when I was younger. Perhaps it was a man who I thought I loved, who tore at pieces of me until I felt I was broken. But in the end, it’s on me. It’s my own perception of myself, and the choices I make, that define this character in the story that I don’t know the ending of.
     So what shall I do?
     Shall I search for an adventure in the great wide somewhere?
     Find out the end of my own Austen Story?
     Take a ring across the country with some of my closest friends?
     Lose a shoe?
     Seek danger in a 67 impala?
     Go to see the lanterns?
     The options seem endless, and I guess that’s the fun part.

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