I have started to fly again,
the way I used to.
Better than calling it flight, it's a
manner of
propelling myself, as though the air were water.
I use my hands to steer myself,
turn around, but
there's no swooping or soaring. I move by pushing
my arms out before me in a
breaststroke, languid
and rhythmic.
I am moving down the hallway in
school, I'd almost forgotten how depressing these
tan walls are. I use them as touch-off points,
bouncing against them the way I used to when I ran
down the halls. This is the part I miss most about
flying, using walls as trampolines, pushing off
with my feet and moving down hallways.
The
problems come when I get outside. I stop stroking,
hoping to hover gently till I settle like
usual. Instead, every person that passes creates
a massive current. I start to rise. Thinking that
I can swim back down, I lean forward but this creates
more lift and before I know it, I am seeing a little
model town beneath me. I would laugh at the way
my flight can reduce me to this cliche,
but every breath takes me further and I need to
get back. I must get back and I panic, forcing
myself awake.
It takes me a long time to fall
back asleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see my world
receding, diminishing, falling as I rise. I'd forgotten
that I hate the flying dreams.