The same old routine:

It’s time to fly south.

Time to leave here and migrate to comfortable warmth

until conditions resume favorable and it’s deemed acceptable by the flock to return from temporary displacement.

It used to never bother me.

In fact, I used to look forward to it.

But just as the seasons change with time, so too has my mind.

With each passing year, the routine is getting old.

It’s not something I look forward to anymore.

It’s something I’ve begun to dread.

Why?

It’s not like anything about it has changed.

But maybe therein lies the problem.

Maybe, it’s me that’s changed.

“It’s time to fly south,” they say,

and the flock gathers obediently.

I stagger a bit before assuming the expected position and falling in line.

And just before taking off once again,

I suddenly open my mouth,

an action that’s probably futile and damning

when it comes to us flying down south.

“But…

what if I want to see the snow?

What if, just once, I didn’t follow?

What if, just once, I decided to stay?

What if I faced it instead of running away?

What if I risked everything that I know

and experience discomfort that might help me to grow?”

“What if the snow is just as beautiful as the sun?

Do we know what we’re missing every year?

Sure, it’s cold, but it would at least be a new feeling.

Or is such a possibility something we must always fear?”

Well, just as I thought, they didn’t understand.

They didn’t hesitate to let me know it, either.

But in that moment, I was faced with a choice:

Fall back in line and forget all about it,

or disband and pursue my new plan.

Well, in that moment, without hesitation,

I surprised even myself,

when, for once, I didn’t need their approval

and I chose to finally set myself free,

to follow orders only given by me,

to spread my wings and fly instead of just flee.