The wind mused his hair, tangled in one messy, solid shape, pulled in the direction of his nose to cover the raging intensity of his eyes. He was crazed on top of that building, the chair wheel under his shaky palm was rough and real and ugly against the seduction of the breeze. Useless legs fought to stand, to take him up again and out and over into the flow that touched him; it ran through him. His was the shambles of what a body once was; a dreamer; a flightless bird whose wings were illusions that tricked him into vicious fits of desire and a wild need to jump. A desperate, violent failure. He was thin and crumpled, wounded from attempt after tragic attempt from rooftop, from window, from anywhere the wind wrapped it’s lithe little fingers around his tiny, hollow-boned wrists and enticed with such amazing promise of that feeling he’d been born to feel: what is felt like to soar. The coiling call of the that sky kept him up at night- he’d never sleep. Sleeping meant dreaming, and the dreams were the reality of the fall, so brutal and crushing, and yet intoxicating- merciful enough to allow him one more chance: the flight was only postponed, delayed. Somehow, despite the world, despite himself, despite the nature of all things, he knew; truly knew that this body would fly. His soul would glide despite it’s vessel. His heart, his life-blood pulsed in his hands, caused the palms to sweat, the fingers to shudder into motion and leave the tire’s grit, let the wheel move with agonizing slowness towards the edge where the seamless dawn met the concrete and brick. He had faith. There would be a fall that would take him, lift him, draw him into the endless view. He would never stop trying. He would never lose hope. He was unbending and unshakable; the twisted and broken boy with baited breath; waiting wings.. the gale and gust were calling one again and as the chair crested the edge, slipped from sight, the world was still. On the horizon, above the bits of metal and seat and shackle, the sun cast a glare of brilliance. The light was flooding. No eyes could see. Gaining height, the apex, without witness to such godly graces, the perfect blue embraced a pair of wings. They were wide. They were victorious. And they were flawless on the rising of a new and promising wind.
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