look at the sky a lot.
I don’t have recurring dreams, because those things are bull, but since I was a child I have always been able to fly.
In dreams of course, not in any waking hours.
(I don’t really fly. I float, actually, and push myself off of any surface I can to gain momentum.
I find myself cross legged at times,
Unfurling my appendages when opportunity strikes.)
I wake up from those dreams crying sometimes.
I look at the sky a lot so I can imagine myself flying.
Not this floating business.
Because of that, I’ve always been interested in Icarus and Daedalus.
Or idiot boy and the father with the hand that twice failed to recount his son’s sad tale.
Mostly fascinated Icarus/idiot boy,
And when I first hear his tale I laid awake all night,
Picturing him in my mind.
(His gilded skin would glow with the fulfillment of longing,
The sun would filter through his hair and man-made wings
And make them look god-given as he strained in flight.)
As I grew and looked at the sky more often,
I entertained thoughts of a career as a pilot or an astronaut.
A pilot must be so detached, and so joyless in the cockpit with too many electronics.
Exploring the final frontier looks like a dream, but I want to stare into that blue sky.