Flight is a thing most people long for. It is a thing I despise.

Soaring the heights is well and good, but the wonder of it has long since worn off on me. Now it’s just flap flap flap, your wings are tired, and all your friends ask if you can give them rides.

There’s no time in those conversations to discuss weight ratios. There is no way I’m carrying you and myself in the air, but it would take too long to explain that, so I just say no.

Kids I could maybe carry. Small ones. But they never ask for rides at all. They just ask, “Can you fly?”

Like, no, of course not, these six-foot wings are for show only. Then I spread my wings and fly away.

I used to love hiking. But that no longer does it for me anymore. I’ve seen everywhere. Many times. I’ve been places most people haven’t. I’ve seen all that nature has to offer.

Okay, well, maybe not EVERYTHING, but enough that I’m bored with that now too.

I also used to like reading. Hard to find a comfortable position to do that anymore. Stupid wings. It’s like trying to sit on your elbows backwards. It’s not fun.

So I’m done with these wings. As soon as I get the funds, I’m going into the nearest surgeon to remove these things for good.

So. Totally. DONE.

The Astral Wanderer is brought to you by frustration sparked by the wonders of an imaginary universe. Share this with everyone so that they know to be more sensitive toward people with enormous wings (whether they’re very old men or otherwise). All proceeds go toward finding a way to pay for this poor fellow’s surgery. Also toward educating the masses on the works of Gabriel García Márquez. Really.