And this feeling manifests itself in my dreams, day and night, and I finally just have to write it down.
I'm standing on the roof of a skyscraper. The building is irrelevant; the city below is nondescript. I'm staring across the flat ground to the edge. And I smile. Here comes the best part.
With all my might, I run and run and run across the roof and with impressive grace spring from the edge with a perfectly placed foot, launching myself proudly into the air above the noise some deathly distance below. I glide.
I hang high in the air for what some seems like an extraordinary length of time before gravity kicks in. I fold my body into a beautiful swan dive and begin the decent. I know what's coming.
As I fall, I grow wings.
With these wings I fly back to the roof, but the ascent is exhausting. I'm left huddled, overwhelmed, broken, curled up by the roof's edge. But I stand, recover, wait. I get bored, antsy. Then I smile.
It's time to run again.
Where am I right now? Maybe on the long, hard return to the rooftop. Or maybe I'm still waiting for my wings. Either way, I know the best part--the run, the jump--will come again...
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