Kites Lost in the Sky Have to Fall Down

I have been trying to understand why it is so easy to dream
and much easier to procrastinate.

Life is like the sky is at basant
Colorful. Vibrant. Full of itself.
Each kite hung in the museum of temporary sentiments through a thread covered in crushed glass.


With every kite that holds itself through the hands that fly other kites,
ties must be cut in order to progress and go higher.
Always a fear of being cut itself.

We focus too much on the kites that fly high.
We focus lesser on the glass that has morphed itself to hang in the sky
Symbiotically dignifying the selected the who rise.

Until someone remembers that the sun has to set.

Forgetting that the sharp glass covered dor forms a web of broken lives.

Kites that just couldn't fly
or not fly as long as the ones we glorify.

I get it.
Its much easier to dream and be the kite doesn't fly.

Falling down hurts.
Nobody wants to be the crying child who just couldn't fly his kite.

Its just easier to never fly.