Dear ghost,
I have shed those that I call wings; I have felt the grass beneath my feet. Alas, the grass is not greener on the other side, it's just the sky that is so blue and beautiful.
I am not good at this. "I can do better at those that I dream of," I have mumbled a lot for a while. But the whisper inside says that I have just not been curious enough. That I should conquer the longing inside. That it is I who is incomplete. It is the human in me that fails to see the the pride of Gaia. It is me so it seems. It is I. Yes, it is my very self. It is mine and mine alone.
Yours even as I fear to be.