A frantic running, stumbling, leaping dance finally gets me off the ground. A furious breast stroke movement gains altitude and speed, and then I’m above the buildings, soaring up, up, and away from the smells and sounds of the bustling city below.
I can’t really say I’ve completely mastered this flying thing, and I’m not really sure why I have to “swim” through the sky, but it is what it is. It works and it’s freedom. Free from the confines of the city. Free from the sidewalks and streets the city planners (if you can call them that) set to guide us like rats in a maze. Up here, I choose my own route, limited only by the endurance of my muscles.
So much like swimming, I use longer, slower strokes as I glide about, enjoying the bird’s eye view of the city. Alone with my thoughts, and the occasional bird, I am free to let my mind wander.
Other times, I use my freedom to escape the shackles society has clamped on me…like English class. The teacher accuses me of daydreaming. She just hasn’t figured out how to get me to put my dreams down on paper.