There is a naivety to flying, as though I thought the wind would never change. I can’t remember how long I’ve been up here, or what I did to find this place, but I just realized how far I have to fall. It seems it’s been months since I couldn’t find my breath, and now I find myself choking on it. It is both my vessel and my obstacle at the same time.
I think wind must be like the seasons. It’s tides change with the earth below it. As though it is urging fall forward, bringing with it crisper nights and mornings that seem newer than the one before. I watch my hands desperately trying to harbor it. I want to hold the wind in my hands. I want it to urge me forward. But it keeps tricking me. It comes and goes, dances and waits. It is teasing me.
There are moments that it urges me upward, tossing me into new atmospheres that tickle pieces of me long forgotten. Pieces never rounded, still jagged with youth, expectation, and dreams. Here I want to take a chance, and I forget there is no one left to catch me when I fall.
Other times the wind pushes me downward. Reminding me I have no wings, that I am small but heavy. The pieces here are more familiar. Their edges have been worn smooth by my hands. My fingers and thumbs tensely working to smooth away the broken promises and lies you still won’t admit. The irony, I suppose, is that the sleek edges of these pieces no longer fit together. They slip on each other and fall away.
Down below…with my feet on this earth, I dance on the broken pieces and wait for the wind to catch me again.
Yes, there is a naivety to flying…as though the wind will never change.