You soar.

You have wings.

You think that maybe you weren’t made for this.

Hot on the heels of this, you think another thought—‘Who cares?’

Really, who cares? You’re flying. These wings aren’t your wings, not in the anatomical sense, but does it matter? You fly. You are flying. This flight is you, and you are the flight. You are Zephyrus, you are the wind, you are the cool breeze that ruffles feathers with your gentle touch.

No, you are a cloud. You float, your cotton substance a staunch gossamy overture to the sky’s blue beautiful evanescence.

No, you are the sky itself. This blue expanse, this wonder, all of this is you, you stretch from horizon to horizon, from pole to pole, you are heaven’s bit amongst the elements, the quarter ascended, the roof to the world.

For the moment, the world is done. You are not of earth, not of fire, not of water.

You are Man, made of earth, risen out of water, borne on fire, one with the wind, the cosmic expanse. This is what you were made for. This is what you are. This is what you dream, this is what you will be.

And blah.

And blah.

And blah.