Stockholm

Sitting on this runway, headed who know's where. Flights so familiar they lose the meaning they once had. And always a risk. And always a reward. And never what you bargained for. Prisoners, forced to be here. Or was the force our free will? And since when was this normal? And why did we accept it? Or is it the best we've ever had?

Fastened seat belts. Tray tables stowed. Always following orders. Always living by the rules. It's for your safety, isn't it? Cause there's going to be a bump or two up there. It's a guarantee. And if it will be bumpy, why do I want to go? Why can't I remember where they said we'd go? I just liked feeling…flying, what's there to know?

It's not about how much I paid to be here. It's not how far I drive. It's not about my luggage. That's not the reason why. I came because I wanted to. It's where I want to be. I didn't care where I was going. It's alright with me. Not the destination. It's the journey. That's what they all say. I buy it. Believe it. Want it to be true.

Looking out this window for a face against the glass. And you're here, in the empty seat at my side. To leave, or to stay. Battles of the heart turning the tide of the war in my mind. Stockholm. A place to see. Or be blind. If I could never give up, and you could never change. If we could never synergize the chaos in our brains.

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