Leaving

Sometimes I look outside at the birds and I grow envious. I want to be free so badly. Free of the hate and death that torments our world. Free of responsibilities that force me to stay awake when I want to follow my dreams. I want to be free like the birds. I’ve imagined what it would be like, what leaving would feel like. I’ve thought about how I would tell my Mom good-bye, how I would make it short so she didn’t have to suffer. I’ve thought about how I’ll tell my Dad, through games because that’s how I want him to remember me. I’ve thought about my Grandmother, in a poorly written letter because she always was so picky about things like that, but I know she won’t be able to fix the spelling because all the memories will come flooding back in. I’ve thought about how I would say it to my Grandfather, but no way seems right, so I decided to just give him all my writing and drawings, all of the things that I value. My family wouldn’t be the only ones I would tell. There are some teachers that I have bonded with enough to feel like they should know, and there is my best friend. I would take her with me, because I can’t live without her or our morning walks. I wouldn’t stop writing. To me writing is equal to breathing. Life feels empty without it. In a way writing is my wings.

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