"The world is a better place because of people who refuse to believe that they cannot fly." - Unknown
The grass is soft beneath me. My fingers curl lazily through the blades, twirling them carefully so as to not pull them out.
Above me stretches an endless plain of wonder. An ocean of the clearest blue, spreading high overhead, so close, and yet so agonisingly far.
The thick, white clouds do not remind me of wool, or of fluff. They remind me of freedom, and of happiness. To spend your days high above the world, never having to worry about anything … to me that is the greatest gift I will never be awarded.
To fly. To be free. It is a simple wish. Yet it is the hardest to grant. To lie on the grass and watch the heavens as they pass, is a small sort of accomplishment when one sees the blissful existence that is reached when one is flying.
The strongest desire cannot be satiated. The most powerful urge cannot be appeased. And it hurts.
To know that such a simple want cannot be obtained, is a greater pain than the loss of that which is already received. To know that such a wish can never be granted, is a greater disappointment than any.
It is one I feel constantly. I lie, my gaze tugged upwards, the burning desire searing my veins as I envision myself among the clouds, yet again. And the aching feeling I feel when I know that it will never happen, instills me with a kind of unshakeable despair, and my very heart burns with a dull feeling of crushing disappointment.
Most people dream of flying when they are young. As they grow older, those dreams of flying disappear as dreams of becoming firmly planted take over. Yet … my dreams did not change. I still dream of flying.
I sat in the window seat of a plane recently, my fingers pressed against the window, unable to turn away. Endless stretches of white spread beneath me, and for once, I was above them. Above the lines of conformity, and above the edges of control. I was free.
Yet that window was like a barrier to me. Such a thin sheet, such a vast barrier. How could such a tiny thing be so immeasurably huge? My eyes, pulled inevitably to the huge expanse of cloud, shone with unveiled sadness, as the reality was separated from my dream.
I want to fly. It will always be a burning ache, an unquenchable desire that never ceases to storm through my veins, through my heart, and through my soul.
I want to fly.
This is a confession of sorts. To what I am confessing, I am not entirely sure. Perhaps I am confessing to my avoidance of the sky. I don't look at it. I don't see it. Because when I do ... I can't pull myself away. Perhaps I am confessing to my love/hate relationship with clouds. I love them, but I hate them. They entrance me, yet I am envious of them. I do not know.
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