Last night, I dreamt of flying again.
I was in a ruined building, with a rag-tag group of misfits, scraping out an existence in this rubble filled land. We’d just come up to their main “living” area, looking out the non-windows onto the rest of the shattered building below. The knocked down yellow bricks made the surrounding area look littered with rocks and dust. This spot was safe. Easy to see people trying to approach. Elevation. A roof over their heads, for at least two guys and a punky girl.
I’m not sure where I was from, but I was visiting them and got a warm welcome. We had just been down in a different part of the ruined building, talking, visiting, hanging out.
Then movement outside. Someone else. This time, a stranger. The leader guy, dusty longish blond hair bleached by the sun messily pulled back, tanned skin, looking every bit the dirty surfer dude, stepped toward the non-window to squint and see. And I took off out the side “door” – a large rent in the wall that lead to nowhere, just thin air with rubble down below.
At first, I had help. A machine clutched to my chest kept me afloat. And I got my muscles working, clumsily at first and then more naturally. But then, that was all the energy the machine had, and it was all up to me. And I pumped those big black feathered wings of mine, as I soared down over the rubble towards the movement. I felt the muscles in my chest working and getting tired. I knew I’d eventually work up to flying further as the muscles got stronger, but I’d soon have to land.
As I woke up, remembering the dream, remembering feeling those muscles working, then remembering that doesn’t work here – such a strange feeling. Disjointed reality.