The Pyle Inside

My hands float over my keyboard, pondering how to put this. 

I mean my life. 

It just is. Not much more to say.

I’m a passionate person, I think. I like to write. 

But when I look around me, around at the people who are typing like their life depends on it, I’m not so sure.

Who am I?

Why am I like this?

I don’t know.

I just read over what I wrote, and I’m thinking, Duh! Life doesn’t really work like this. Things are just born that way, meant to be that way, flying over this world that way. You write what you write and you don’t get upset.

But I am upset.

I’m in this world, yes, but sure of myself? No. I’m writing, typing, wondering who I am and why I can’t fly like all the others. And I write it like I know philosophy. I wish I did.

But I don’t.

Poems, trains of thoughts coasting through my head like they should be there, but they shouldn’t. There’s a girl here who reads Shakespeare sonnets and memorizes them for fun. It’s like her fingers were meant to fly over that keyboard, her words meant to break through in a way that no other does.

But I can’t.

I don’t, I won’t, I shouldn’t, I can’t. Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat. This is my life.

I write this like I am a trapped person. 

But I am not.

Is this a poem? An epic? A life story? Or is it a representation of what I feel, what I’m proud of, what I think?

Because right now, at this moment, I feel like a bird, trapped, but unwilling to fly. If a bird is unwilling to fly, is it truly trapped? Or is it trapped by its soul and not its surroundings?

What am I saying, I think. So many questions, too many questions. A fluffy feather detached from a wing, floating in my mind, tickling my consciousness, landing somewhere, sinking deep in there. Somewhere.

Where?

I’m not going to read back on this. I’m not going to think back on this. Surroundings stay the same.

It is the bird that is unwilling to fly.