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The Interminability of Flight

The Interminability of Flight.png

I still experience something akin to melancholy when I watch birds in flight. On a day that's full of wind, real wind, the kind that finds most humans indoors, certain birds are out, just hanging there, suspending themselves in the gale, up to nothing but... being. Seagulls appear the same as hawks on days such as these. How this affects me, it's hard to express. It's an ancient feeling. Atavistic, unrefined. Standing witness to the reality of flight is, I imagine, a very unchanged experience for humans throughout the ages. Bound to the earth, we are all the same — longing, wonder, envy. Even a sort of familiarity. 

In my dreams, I often fly. It is an easy type of flight, soft and weightless, never venturing too high. There are places, so familiar, just beyond the grasp of memory, that I visit time and again, moving in near silence through their spaces, alive, aware. No running required, just the wind and the air, lulling me from the earth and tussling my hair, reminding me… yes. i know how to do this. of course i do... and I am aloft, weightless in the night sky, beneath the moon, watching the tall grass grow smaller beneath me, heading steady to the shadowed tree-line on the horizon… or in the the quiet, deserted barn at twilight, rising up to greet the thick, orange rays as they melt the loft windows…

And I realize, in these places, that there is no permanent departure, no irreverent remembering. We are always in flight. We come and go, weaving our way through waking dreams alike, but never do we truly leave, never are we forever free of their residue. We carry them with us, travelling endlessly, breathing the cool air, only coming, here and there, to alight.