Is This Called Moving on?

From the plane, she looked down at the valleys, with their zig zag roads and cultivation patches looking like serpentines cascading in an attempt to reach her and greet her. She had fled, from the building blocks in the urbane cities she had tried finding a home in; from the hundreds of acquaintances she had found but not a friend to laugh and cry with.

The "Trek To Tibet" trip advert had attracted her gaze at the very first time, while she was sipping her Cafe Latte at a Coffee Home outlet next to her office. The flyer seemed to have flown out of the stack of newspapers untidily arranged at the bill counter. "Opportunities are what but mazes undefined.." she had heard the radio jockey as he blared out some information regarding some free movie tickets he was rewarding. If this had been any other day, she would have sniffed off the quote saying, Ah, that has to be a poet, not an RJ for Chris' Sake! But it made complete sense to her.

The next thing she knew, she had let go. Let go of her expectations, her wrenching ache for love, a need to be loved and appreciated. If it has to happen, someday it'll happen. Someday, the bud shall bloom into a flower and if it does not, it shall simply detach itself and let go yet again.. Is this called Moving on? Sitting on a flight to a far flung Tibet, she was heading to find herself. To accept who she really is. For if she did not, no one else would.
Even if it were the life she led. The life of an escort. A prostitute if you please. She could not care any less.

This is where the end begins

and where the leaves fall off 

men bow their heads in shame

and women spit out of their mouths in disgust.

I walk

With my head held high

I walk

with every bit of me, in spite of

the namesake reputation I bore

you wore me, you tore me

like a piece of cloth

in your fragrance I belittled

my own little world in yours.

I walk

as I look at them

I walk

and they cannot meet my eye

and I let out a violent cry

but they do not see my tears

For I smile, no I laugh

Like the chameleon out on that tree

see how it defines me, do you?

This is where the end begins

and where the leaves fall off

men bow their heads in shame

and women spit out of their mouths in disgust.

I am that bird you see

soaring deep up high

you cannot touch me, only see me wild

and for that you hate me,

Hate me more, sweet friend or foe

for I care no more.

for I care no more..

This post is part of the contest Tibet: Roof of the world. Its people : Roofless.. on WriteUpCafe.com inspired by the Photo Fiction book

The Stopover