The Art of Leaving

Whenever you were about to leave a place, do you have a feeling that held you down to that place?

Like an anchor, that you were the ship. Buried deep down underwater for a long time. And eventually became attached to the corals underneath. Friendly with the fishes and the dolphins. And the moss that grows around it.

Or maybe harder than that. For a ship can move easily by just releasing the anchor. I am more like a tree. Tree can't move. With its roots firmly attached to the ground. And squirrels wandering around. And birds nestling safe and sound. Already in love with the winds that brush with the loveliest touch. And grass and flowers. The beautiful grass and flowers. And even though, children broke its branches, or lovers carved their name on it. It didn't mind. Because, that too, it has been attached to it. There are good and bad of being everything. It has realize it. But, like an anchor, that thought holds it down too. Because it scared of the unknown that she will never knew. Until the time when it was too late to turn back.

And here I am. Given only two choices, to go forward, or turn back. There are another direction, upwards and below. But, I can't fly and I can't dig underground. And, I can't turn back neither. Only forward. Almost all the time, life only give us one choice. And that is, to move forward. And leaving what is behind.