Flightless Bird

Going home late without getting reprimanded, reaching places perfect for strengthening friendships, having beautiful fun without worrying about the time–I am awed at how teenagers these days are able to breeze their way into get-togethers, at how some only ask permission at the last minute but are still able to go, and honestly, I am envious.

Missed reunions and restricted socialization are only a few of the features of my burning existence. Like a thin fiber set aflame, that is. And these, I really do understand. I am, after all, merely a woman. My body tissues are, unfortunately, layered into the eternal image of a little girl, or a little woman. Really, I’m in first year college now but a grade school classmate of mine said, “Only your hairstyle changed. You still look the same.”

Alright, it seems like I’ve already been casted as this little woman without anyone giving a damn about asking my permission first. Oh well. Back to the point: my (live) social life sucks. I can’t just say, “Mom, I’m leaving,” without getting shot by my mother’s raised eyebrow, or without answering questions that would, trust me, buy more time in than time out. I’ll be a hypocrite if I said that it doesn’t bother me.

It does. Whenever I get a negative for an answer, I feel rejected, frustrated at the ounces of happiness that I won’t be able to receive. I know that they care for me, but maybe only for my welfare, not for my feelings (darn, I sound so selfish). Though it is kind of endearing in a way, sometimes, I just find it choking. How will I be able to earn independence if they just wouldn’t let go of me? I feel like I am imprisoned, strangled. I am living my life staggering, weighed down by the heavy chains molded into my wrists, my legs, and even into my heart (the last one is a beautifully chaotic story).

One thing I am glad of in my first ever semester in college is the freedom knit closely to the very heart of being in college. Though I yearn for the familiarity of my high school world, I am really in ecstasy at the thought of being the commander of my own actions, the sole governor, no matter how temporary. Yet, no matter how in love I am with liberty, I am not captured by the allure of recklessness. No, I really am not. I want to be a responsible actress, not a haphazardous damsel.

I want to wrench myself free, away from all these chains encumbering my flight. Though I have succumbed to impatience (the main reason why I’m writing about this), it all boils down to one word: wait.


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