I believe we can fly. I don’t use “we” as a pronoun of political, poetic, and regal ambiguity. I refer simply to you and me. As we.
Of course, we’d need a gust of hope and an aquamarine sky. Sometimes, those images segue into my dreams at night and, when I wake up, I’d swear I was conjuring actual memories. That is, unless my dreams were to involve heinous aircraft crashes or surreal chases.
I have had the air travel phobia since 2001 when I saw Tom Hanks’ “Castaway”. I innocently mistook quiet for safety. My eyes were glued to “said screen” just as the jet crashed into the ocean.
As for the high energy chase dreams, they are probably just like everyone else’s. Someone or something is in increasing pursuit of my tattered robe. Just as my ass is almost theirs, I either awaken in Coach on an Eastern Airlines shuttle to New York. Or I’m flying above the ancient Pin-Oaks and the sodium-inspiring light posts.
Hours later only the essence of such flights remain.
But my midlife optimism doesn’t end there:
When I am sitting outside, staring at the sky, I imagine that I am some sort of silly sprite who hops from cloud to cloud. I might be singing. I might be walking with an old classmate. Or I just might be watching … what, I don’t really know. It’s a grand notion so beyond my ken, that its very definition is static, unknown, or incomprehensible.
So here I sit, on an old and extremely worn green leather chair. I ramble on and on. Managing my own figments allows me control of what I see when I close my eyes later tonight.
I believe we can fly.