Flight

Flight
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I rose with the rising sun and bathed in its gentle rays, decided to fly. Yes I did.
I took off from my balcony and flew low over the lakes, skimming the water and touching the ripples. I flew while the oarsmen below rowed to a symphony of synchronous motion over water, a harmonic flexing of wood and muscle as their boat knifed through the calm water. They had oars, but I had wings. I flew over them. They didn’t notice. So I flew on, past the joggers, skaters, assorted people baiters, off-work hookers with smeared lipstick and last night’s perfume. And I, a city slicker, bound at the hips with the multitudes, the lost souls and with those at the beginning of the journey. Twelve million souls jostling for space, stepping on each other, fighting for space. Claustrophobia. Arachnophobia. Homophobia. And, all the phobias you can invent. Trying their best to get a little something for nothing in the theatre of dreams. Dream on.

I flew past my old school, dipping below the new flyover, swerving around the Corinthian pillars of the old chapel. Needs a coat of paint, I thought. Yes it did. It needed to be born again. Like we all need to desperately reinvent ourselves. Again and again, once again.

The sun was way up when I flew high past the glass and steel, admiring my own reflection on the screen. The great narcissist. Voyeur paramount. Dipping past Elvis advertising hair care and styling gel. Past the lovers by the river, tongue kissing, hands working deftly underneath. I flew by the College Street coffee house with smoke-filled sunrays streaking through the arched windows into the darkness inside. Green table tops, poets, failed revolutionaries drowning in thick cigarette smoke and the constant din of opinion – freely given, freely taken, freely ignored. And so I flew.

Over the rhythmic neons, flashing past the Moulin Rouge, past the night walkers, night stalkers and hawkers peddling their ware. Weekend revelers with their fleet of new Mercs and Beamers, new money calling it a night, to continue their stalking at home. I dipped my wings to the Gods of the city and slow danced to the jazz, drums and percussion of the streets. I am, I said. I am, I cried.

I embrace the snow capped mountains, surf and sand, the tranquility of the deep blue sea, the greens of lush farmlands. But this is it. My paradise, my soul, hardened on the cracked sidewalk, smashed to smithereens in the wild traffic, pushed by the ever increasing pace, but flying. Still flying. I am home.