I was walking
I was walking along the edge of a body of water in the bright sunlight, when I finally decided to take flight again. It wasn't really a beach that rose and marked the boundary of the sea, but a gleaming white concrete walkway that gently sloped and rose along the water's edge organically, like a series of low hills, but then cut off at an uncompromising 90° and dropped straight down into the green water. The water moved like an ocean, but there was another landmass in sight, an island or another continent, rising high and dark against the horizon. The distant mountains were deep green at their base and rose in pale, wedges of moon-like stone that made me think of The Sydney Opera House. The mountains also made me think of ribs, picked clean of everything but their ghosts, rising from a wet jungle of green shadows, and the far-off land felt somehow ominous.
I had spent a great deal of time on the ground. I was appreciating the feeling of moving by pushing off against the smooth concrete surface I was gently pressed against, repeatedly propelling myself forward with one leg and then catching myself again with another step before I fell off balance. Eventually the enjoyment of this repetitive process became impatience and I let myself fall back into the sky where I belonged. I moved quickly through the air; describing long, sweeping curves as I slipped across the bright blue sky. I may have hovered low to speak to someone, but I can no longer recall.
Perhaps I was to explore those sharp mountains in the distance, or the lurking rain-forest below. Nothing else of that Seaside Flight remains in my mind.
That was yesterday morning's dream.
Today I woke up with only a vague recollection of a ghost-like existence, where my flight was more of a slow drifting/swimming experience as I moved through a neighborhood at night, passing by and sometimes though the houses of strangers.
If I take the time to document anything, it needs to be these moments when I remember my dreams of flight.
I hope to have time again soon for my journal and for yours.
I had spent a great deal of time on the ground. I was appreciating the feeling of moving by pushing off against the smooth concrete surface I was gently pressed against, repeatedly propelling myself forward with one leg and then catching myself again with another step before I fell off balance. Eventually the enjoyment of this repetitive process became impatience and I let myself fall back into the sky where I belonged. I moved quickly through the air; describing long, sweeping curves as I slipped across the bright blue sky. I may have hovered low to speak to someone, but I can no longer recall.
Perhaps I was to explore those sharp mountains in the distance, or the lurking rain-forest below. Nothing else of that Seaside Flight remains in my mind.
That was yesterday morning's dream.
Today I woke up with only a vague recollection of a ghost-like existence, where my flight was more of a slow drifting/swimming experience as I moved through a neighborhood at night, passing by and sometimes though the houses of strangers.
If I take the time to document anything, it needs to be these moments when I remember my dreams of flight.
I hope to have time again soon for my journal and for yours.