The restlessness is stirring again. Part of me feels uncomfortable that it's still there; I should be content. Part of me feels glad that I haven't lost the urge. That my passion remains undiluted. That my feet are raring to take to flight. Every once in a while I unfold my wings and scrutinize them, noticing how people, events and circumstances have carved indelible marks and trails, moulding them, testing them, strengthening them to push me further. Even now as I type this, I'm flexing my blades checking out my imaginary, translucent silver-blue, 12-foot span aviator's dream.
Seven more months. If only I can wait it out patiently. I think I've been in the wilderness long enough. I'm poised ready to enter the Promise Land.