Am floating away, like a paper plane. Crafted carefully and locked in with neat folded lines. Shot through the air, aiming high and having a clear direction but halted by the weather. The wind sweeps it away, causing it to overturn, slowly plummeting to the ground, unaware that its current state, facing heavenwards is causing it to welcome a slow death. Then the rain, the paper soaked and slowly withering. 

Then, a mighty eagle sweeps in and clenched it tightly with his sharp beak. It hurts but not as much, not as much as the other days. I feel secured, weirdly, despite being held so tightly. I relaxed. I am broken anyway. As I relaxed, I feel the piercing pain lessening. Something about it feels comforting and familiar. I am held together by the warmness of its beak. at times, it makes me wonder if babies feel the same way, when they are tightly wrapped in their mothers' water bag. 

But I am torn and tattered. There's no flight or fight in me. Let me fall please. I heard a loud call. It was a response, a rebuke. I felt wet once again, but this time, the drops of water did not reduced me to wet paper. Every drop formed a crystal on my form. it covered the cracks in my wings and smoothens the roughness in my tail. 

Why? Why does the eagle want to hold the paper planes? What does the eagles want to do with it?  I can't even begin to compare both the eagle and the fake plane. I can't even comprehend it.