Do you fly when you dream? Or do you fall? Silence heavy like humidity as the man waits for someone to answer his question.
Fly. Fall, Fall, Fly, Fall, Fly, they answer, one and then all, voices overlapping.
Fall, I reply.
Not a surprise, he replies, looking at me and then out the window to the empty street.
His response upsets me, as if he knows me, this stranger. As if I am obviously someone that would fall. I have never dreamt of flying. In the delicate haze between wakefulness and sleep as I lie on my back I often feel as if I’m sliding off my bed into a strange dark hole into the unknown. Jerking awake, I lie on my side, now fully awake. In truth, I have often thought that my life is a dream. Not as in my life is perfection, but as in every moment that I have experienced is a flash forward into a potential future. My eyes have never seen, my lungs have never taken in worldly air, my hands have never held, my nose has never smelled, my tongue has never tasted and my heart has never ached. I know what life could have in store. I can prevent hurting those that matter, I can avoid wasting time pining after a boy that will never care, I can avert so many mistakes, I can choose to avoid life altogether and let my soul evaporate, rising high above the mountains. I have seen the fall. I have fallen. I am a little miracle in the womb and when it’s time to choose fall or fly, I decide. I am ready to fly.