Flying

 

It is a gorgeous summer day. The sun is shining overhead while the birds sing sweetly in the trees. There doesn’t seem to be anyone whose spirits the practically bubbly weather cannot lift. All normal children have long left their stuffy houses for the freedom to be found beneath the open skies.

But normal is such a terrible thing to be and I am quite pleased that I fall into what can be politely called the weird category. So, instead of risking dehydration or death by over-socialisation, I have chosen to remain at home. At least this way I can occupy my mind with a good book without fear of dirtying it or exposing it to children who fail to treat it like the treasure it is. It is shaping up to be an excellent day.

Having steadily worked my way through about three quarters of Orwell’s 1984 (it becomes better, and more horrifying, with every read) and rising to get a glass of water, I catch sight of the window. It is a familiar view, and honestly a rather boring one, but something about the sight captivates me. In the glass, I can see both the reflection of my room and the outside world. This is hardly a surprise (I do study Physics and can thus easily understand why this is happening). But today, for some reason, I truly pause for a few minutes to simply look at the picture these two overlapping views paint when they superimpose.

There is my bed, unmade and untidy as it usually is, covered by a blue sheet today. But from the spot where I rest my head at night arises the almond tree from outside the window, forming a canopy to shield me from rain and sun. What a strange sight it makes! I am almost tempted to rest in the inviting shade of the old tree. And there, a branch pokes the centre of a barely functioning clock, stuck at 11.27.

The sunlight glistens in one corner, evenly matched by the tube light in my room. The building in the distance is drawn on my whiteboard, my calendar hides the house of my best friend. My chair floats, unsupported. My book rests on a bright green leaf. The crows are nesting on top of the giant pile of books in a corner of my study table.

The strange, entrancing sight is the very definition of bizarre and beautiful.

And look, there I am, floating as my book and my chair. The ground is a long way down. It will take but one step to be safely balanced on the tree and I think I may be able to climb down then. That would be the sensible course of action, what normal people would do.

But I am not normal. I create my own wings. I may fall, true, but I may also fly. And that is worth the risk.

I have scarcely begun to try out my new wings when a sudden call of my name breaks the spell and sends me plummeting. I return to reality to my mother’s barely stifled snickers and father’s unrestrained guffaws to find myself standing in front of the window, outstretched arms holding a bedsheet. I blink. There is no tree in my bedroom, nor crows, nor a building on my whiteboard. There never were.

My feet are firmly planted on the ground. 

I join my parents in their laughter but my heart is grieved. Because for one moment, one glorious moment, I had flown. And I fear the ground shall never be enough again.