Flying

Don’t try to understand what happens when you first start flying. It’s like magic, you question, you fall, you crash and burn, you die. Wings aren’t made for logic, not these wings. We aren’t birds, we aren’t insects or fat metal tubes hurtling through the sky. We’re magic. We’re pretty impossibilities. We’re the thing children point at and scream in delight over.
Let go, fall. Watch the ground. See? See it coming for you? A hungry lion, a bear, a monster with shark’s teeth and a rapacious grin. It’s going to eat you. It’s going to smash you. Every bone. It’s going to rape you and devour you and you are going to beg for it. Scream for it.
And when its reaching its dirty fingers, its fat, slimy fingers for you, when you know you are going to die and you welcome it and hold your hands out to it, then you fly. Then those beautiful magnificent exquisite wings billow open and you go screaming towards the sky, caught in blood and death and sex so perfect you could cry and then you’re backfloating in the sun’s ocean, and looking down on that hungry and greedy ground, and you start laughing because you’re flying. You aren’t human. It’s all there below you, and it’s not you.
That’s what flying is. It’s not wings and feathers and hollow bones. It’s not air currents or speeds or velocity…

Thus endeth the tale. Or what I am posting anyways. If I decide I’m not going to do anything with it, I’ll post the rest. Or email me, and I’ll send it to you.

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