It was winter, and I couldn't see out of the windshield but I knew I was flying. I felt the cold and the wind on my face, and I knew I was flying. I looked out the windshield, and a thousand butterflies had started to call. I don't remember what was going on in the passenger seat, but I remember that looking out the windshield was exhilarating.
I felt the leafy dirt on my knuckles. I felt all the smells around me, the smells in the air. There was the pine forest, there was the pungent earth, there was the brush, and there were the birds.
I was flying.
It was spring, and I couldn't see out of the windshield but I knew I was flying. I had hardly ever looked out the windshield of that truck, not even once since I had gotten it, but I knew I was flying. I felt the warmth of the sun on my cheeks, and my eyes burned against the wind. I could feel the clouds and the grass and the dirt and my neighbor's horse. I had never seen such beauty.
I was flying.
I could hear wind passing through me like a dream. I could feel it. I was flying. I felt the fresh dirt between my fingers, and I heard the birds singing.
I was flying.
I felt my hair blown back in the wind. I felt the rush of my hair falling at my shoulders. I felt the butterflies in my stomach, and I felt my breath in my lungs.
I was flying.
I felt a place in my heart so full of happiness it could hardly contain it.
It was a music that came in waves. It was a music that came from everywhere. It was the beat of my heart and the beat of my love, and it felt like everything. It felt like all of me, and I felt alive.
I was flying.
I could feel my hair being blown back in the wind, and I could hear the birds singing.
I was flying.
I can't stop flying, it's the only thing I know how to do. And I never want to not know how to fly.
