I love summer nights. Sometimes they’re drowsy, other times they’re frighteningly aware. There’s something freeing about the right temperature, the level of darkness, all the noise but also the silencing of the typical first-world machinery chugging and hissing and humming and sighing away in the background. It stops and is replaced with the original sounds, the biologically created noises of crickets and cicadas and nocturnal birds.
I prefer to be in a rural area or by the beach at night, because cities tire me and are too bright and noisy, but sometimes I feel something stirring there too. As though I could grow wings and fly.
I’ve always wanted to fly. To be untouchable, limitless, swift, silent, unknown, and unbound has appealed to me since I was very young.
My frustration, in flying dreams, is that I can never seem to get high enough off the ground. I want to be able to see everything from a great enough distance, but I never can. Though I can lift off, I am slow, and weighted down, and trapped. The taunting nature of the gift that is a curse.
I get very attached to these dreams. They make me angry and sad. The closest I can get to flying is when I am awake, and writing. Or staring out of a window and trying my hardest to imagine how it would feel.