Monday, August 22, 2005


When I was between six and ten, I was positive I could fly. I would have dreams where I would be walking on air. I could lie on my back and drift along air currents like I did ocean currents at the beach. I'd soar till the mountain tops where eye level. I buzz past them just to nick the ice off the edges. Between ten and twelve, I knew that I had flown and could fly again occasionally. My dreams, so vivid, would be walking down stairs and never touching the concrete of them. I would walk the earth and not touch the ground. Sometimes, I'd fall, but I never gave up trying to have those dreams. Somewhere in those last two years, I began to grow up. I still remember the moment my feet left the earth. I remember the exhilaration of the wind in my face and being lifted higher. Sometimes, I recreate those dreams when a plane takes off. I remember in a dozen different ways; whenever the breeze caresses my face, whenever I am entrenched in a moment of a smile, when I laugh... I fly.