For a few years, I was obsessed with hawks. I got a little hawk book, I pored over the construction of the wing, and I thought about them all the time. I was not a fanatic, but I certainly loved them quite a bit. I often fantasized about one somehow taking me away to a place where I could fly–generally this was during recess, when I didn’t have any friends, and I was overwhelmed by all of the crazy little people running about and making irritating noises. I thought I could escape–and though I realized eventually that being a hawk wouldn’t be intellectually challenging and I’d be stuck only concerning myself with survival rather than enjoying the freedom of flight, I yearned to be capable of soaring.

I couldn’t find any really good fiction about flying people, especially since my dream was associated with the symbolism of either fairies or Christianity, stuff that I wasn’t looking for as reading material, and for some reason I didn’t write very many low-quality fiction on notebooks. I seem to have isolated myself to drawing and staring out of windows for excessive periods of time, unable to see my teachers’ confused expressions through the brightly-colored afterimages from looking outside for fifteen minutes straight.


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