Out of this body

I don't want to come back down to the world below. I never do. Whenever I feel the overwhelming web of myopia tightening around my lungs, I escape to a place of higher altitude. Up there, I can see far. I look down where I came from and I wince. I don't want to go back there. How was I living down there, how are those people still living down there, running around everyday with their eyes to the ground, never once even looking up to believe what could be real? They don't even know, can't even imagine what I can see from up here, how the things that people would kill or be killed for suddenly make no sense as I try to understand what drives the world down there, why I cared for any of it before. I cannot go back. I don't want to go back. But go back I must as the day draws to a close and a breeze I'm not yet ready for gains strength. I look at the setting sun, knowing that it is not that aging orb but rather the Earth I'm standing on that is moving. I finally know peace here, do I have to go back where I'll have to once again give up my sight and remember serenity only in dreams? Will I remember what I knew up here when I'm gasping in the treacherous quicksands of the world of Man? Can't I stay?

The breeze grows stronger, and I know I have to return. I will be back someday when this body will not limit me, not hold me back from taking flight on this breeze. For now I take leave. I begin to descend lower, back into the world of bodies and things. From here, I can't see the heights I had been to - the buildings and city lights block my view. But every once in a while a secret breeze rustles past my ear, where it comes from and where it goes a dull mystery, briefly awakening a vague feeling of a promise made to me in some forgotten time.

"Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return." - Leonardo da Vinci