Chapter 1: Landing

The landing is rough. Jarring. Jolting. Jinxing any possible chance of imagined possibility.
Reality bites is an understatement. It's more like, reality chews. chokes. Challenges. 
I find myself drifting into resignation. Into retreat. Into reason. And the enemy of joy is reason, is it not? Perhaps not. What do I know about joy, anyways. I am no child. Children are the messengers of joy in our world. Children and perhaps also dogs. Yes, dogs, with their wag, their wonder, their wailing. Once, they too were mad at the moon, and like wolves they howled, like humans they wandered timid, tender, toying with the idea of letting go. The landing is rough. Reminding me that my home is broken. Here, there and everywhere. And flying high in the sky doesn't repair a broken home. Flying high in the sky is only a thing of itself. And every thing of itself has an end. A conclusion. A point. A book end. I, too, shall have my book end. But for now, I land.