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.