I am that frail, thin leaf that once detached
itself from an old oak tree. Right now, I am flying with the million dusts that
blissfully dance with the breeze. I am floating, trying to enjoy every twist
and turn, embracing my so-called freedom, kissing the beaming sunlight that
paints the sky gold. I am running with the flock of birds and butterflies. I am
free.
But I am starting to get exhausted with this
seemingly-endless flow. But how can I rest if I don’t even have a home? Will I
forever remain in the stratosphere—flying, floating and running along the
nimbus clouds?
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