clear sky

I used to dream about flying all the time.

Looking out an upper-story window. Walking the ridge of a hill or hiking along the canyon with my family. Leaning over the arc of the bridge. The urge to jump was always there, coiled in my throat.

Watching the sky change color, from pale-flower-blue to saturated-purple to dusk. Lying in the grass watching the stars spinning overhead. Facing into the Wyoming wind as I stepped out the door, sharp-edged and bracing and snatching your breath only to fill your lungs again with cold mountain air if you would let it. The ache just between my shoulder blades was always there, almost ready to unfurl.

Eventually, it faded. I rationalized wings as flight from the fight – talked about flying as a longing for beauty not meant for this life – talked it out and about and let the fancy slip through my fingers, brought my attention back to the earth I found myself rooted to.

And I don’t know if I found the roots I was looking for or if the coiling lengths are only a strangler’s vine tying itself through my branches but I find myself lost in a tangle that only spirals inwards, caught in a shifting hazy storm that’s only internal- there’s clear sky just outside the windows but not a single EXIT sign glowing red to point the way.

I found myself dreaming of wings today, and this time I don’t want to look away from the sky.



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