I can fly in my dreams. I remember the first couple times it happened. The funny way you learn things in dreams without realizing you’ve learned something new — the same way you understand the situation without any narration, without anyone explaining it to you. I always fly by swimming into the sky — I guess because it’s the only metaphor my mind can find for what it’s like to traverse something invisible, to be able to move in three dimensions with ease. And at first, I had to keep it secret. I snuck out of my parents’ house to the field beside my middle school and watched the trees I climbed in real life shrink beneath my feet. (I didn’t understand how I could know what they would look like — how I could know. And maybe for that tiny tiny moment, I thought it wasn’t a dream and that I could do anything.) Now I fly all the time in my dreams. No one seems surprised when I do it. They don’t even wave at me. They don’t ask how I do it. But then — I couldn’t explain it anyway.
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