Do you know what the worst thing about growing up is?

I don’t really know how to fly anymore.

I mean, I dream about it every once in awhile, but it’s a rare thing, and even when I do it’s not the same.  I know too much about the physics, about the lack of air density and the impossibility of it all.  Even if I do break free from my self-imposed ties to earth, I rarely get more than 40-50 feet off the ground. When I angle forward for a dive I pull up too soon, frightened to gain any real momentum.

I miss flying.  I can still taste the memories, the sweat of exhilaration, the sweetness of freedom.  I’d run as hard as I could, feet pounding against the ground, body leaning forward, until I gained enough power to kick off.

Leaving gravity behind was difficult – my arms would strain against the weight of it, pushing and pulling at the air, flapping hard, feet kicking as I gained altitude.

Then there was that sweet moment – the moment when I knew I had a succesful takeoff…. that moment when the strain of liftoff was behind, and I’d slow the beat of my arms down, rising from the ground in long, lazy spirals, playing with the currents of the wind.

I miss that.