To Fly

I used to dream. I still do, but there was one dream from years ago that I’d have, over and over again. The same dream, slight differences, would appear so very often.

It was about flying, which I suppose isn’t so very uncommon. People have been preoccupied with flight since 4000 BC, just to make up a date, and while it’s become slightly less fascinating, the sight of a hawk wheeling around in the sky, riding the currents, still captivates.

But anyway. A dream about flying.

In the little world that I found myself in, people could fly. Just fly – up and go for the heck of it. I’d stand on the sidewalk, watching the neighbors go past in whatever mode of travel pleased them at the moment.

I’d have my friends by me, or I was by them, one of the two. They’d regularly decide to go off somewhere, and at once the group would run out onto the street and, with that start, take off.

Trying to be caught up in that moment, I’d run with them. Run – go. Don’t think – run. Feel yourself rising – you are, you are – go.

They would fly. I’d see them, watch their faces feeling the wind as they spun and rose higher.

But the view from the ground would always leave something to be desired. For the life of me, I’d never be able to join them. Trying not to think, to just fly, I would always fail. Jump, and think for a moment that I’d finally broken through. That’d I’d achieved what the rest of them had accomplished with a joyful abandon.

And a second later, my feet would find the ground. There they’d go, off to who knows where. One might look back for a moment and wonder why I had stayed behind. “Come on!”

I wanted to. I still want to.

Cetera desunt and all that. Those dreams are over; haven’t had them in years. But I remember the feeling, watching them fly.