When I was a little kid, I was convinced I could fly. Anyone who knows me will once again wonder how on Earth I have not gotten myself killed yet. I did, though. I used to have dreams about flying so much as a little kid I thought I could. I would clamberer out of my bed in the night, stand on the floor beneath my window, and just soar up through it into the night sky. I still remember what it felt like, a strange pull in my gut as my feet would leave the ground. I remember the feel of the icy air ripping through my thin night-gown. I remember flying with strangely vivid detail, even as an adult. Part of me knew that flying was a night time thing, and no one could ever know, but I also knew I couldn't force it. My ability to fly wasn't one I had perfect control over, but that was okay. I relished the moments I got to spend sky born.
This is something I don't give much thought to these days. Once in a while something will trigger the thought or memory and there will be a deep sink in my stomach. A sort of dull, lingering sadness, one that will never quite go away, I only get to forget about it. Yes, I am saying that not being able to fly is one that causes me ongoing angst. I am well aware that it is silly. My more jaded, sensible adult self is reluctant to admit that I used to think I could fly, even thought the memories will sometimes bubble up to the surface with more vivid detail than almost anything else from my childhood. Still... I can't be the only one who sometimes is just really sad that we can't fly, right?
