December 31, 2013 § Leave a comment
Twice I’ve had a flying dream. The first time I was in my early twenties. I flew high above the ground gliding with little effort over green lush valleys in the sharp sunlight against a bright blue sky. It was a feeling of pure joy that I carried through the rest of the day after I woke up.
I had another one when I was in my late thirties, but I flew much lower, almost at ground level weaving around buildings and rising up and down over obstacles. It made me happy, but in that way that was tinged with sadness knowing that it would end. The difference is that I was aware of what it was and that lessened it. When I woke up, I was disappointing, because I kept comparing it to the first one.
When I think of both experiences now, it feels like the progression of my life. I once felt strongly about things, but I have lost those intense feelings. I keep hoping for them to come back, but instead I dwell on the fact that my life will be coming to an end.