Key the mind, and set the soul free.

Sometimes we are that fly in the house, that thinks it sees an open window. So it crawls to, or flies head-on into clear glass. At times getting stuck between the storm and pane, it dies in the windowsill under a tormenting, hot sun.

So many birds sitting around, on a dead wire, a bare branch, a cold ground, a drifting seashore; never realizing the glory in their wings and where it can take them, nor the envy as we look on them.

Way is, where way goes. As a wind that blows and the bird that soars, into the open blue, where it neither knows when do is due.

When I was young, I thought I was a bird at one time. Then they told me I can't fly, so I stopped flying.

Don't let someone keep putting out the flame God keeps re-lighting, we all have a purpose. As a wing to a bird. As wind that goes the destiny over the sea.