Winged

I awoke in the morning.
This was the day.
I ate breakfast.
I got dressed.
I stepped outside.
And I flew.

I lifted off at rocket speeds, the green and grey earth growing ever more indistinct as I soared upwards. The wind tore at me, ripped the clothes from my body and sent them hurtling downwards, and even as they were bound by gravity I felt my cares break like the rusted shackles that had tethered me to the ground. And faster I soared, the blue sky growing ever deeper, the stars shining brightly as I rushed towards them. And the air was thin and I did not need to breathe; only to jet further from the world. My life was the past, and soon I began to forget it; the pain, surely, but also the joy.

I stopped.

Should I continue and lose it all for this bright blazing path I was on? Half of me tugged upwards and half the other way. Had I come all this way for nothing? Was it worth losing what I had? And then a thought occurred to me, and resolved I shot downwards, back to Earth and memory and home.

And I landed softly.
And went to bed.
And woke the next morning.
And took your hand.
And we flew.