“Why are you running?”

the old man asked me.

I blinked.

“I am not running,”

I replied.

But the old man just smiled

That annoying, all-knowing smile

Which infuriated me so.

“You are always running,”

the old man informed me.

I shook my head

And his smile grew larger.

“Not literally, of course,”

the old man revised.

“But why are you running?”

I did not answer.

“Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” I answered

Too quickly.

The old man’s smile faded,

Replaced with something I hate even more.

“My poor butterfly,”

the old man cooed,

Stretching out his arm

To touch me on the hand,

“You have had your wings stolen

by a child who thought they were pretty

And wanted them for his own.

Now you cannot fly without them.”

I looked down.

“My wings were not stolen,”

I informed the old man,

“I just prefer walking on the solid ground

To floating along at the mercy of the wind.”

The old man laughed.

“But that is the fun part,”

the old man said,

“Letting go and seeing where you end up.”

“And what happens when I get into trouble

Because I just let go?”

I argued.

“Well, you rely on the wind to change

And get you back out,”

the old man replied.

“And if it does not change

And leads me further into trouble?”

I asked the old man.

The old man studied my face.

“I see now,”

the old man finally said,

“I thought maybe you ran

Because you wanted to chase your dreams.

But now I see.

You run because you are fleeing from your nightmares.”

I turned away completely

And left the old man behind.