I don't have flying dreams very often. Most of the time, my dreams are at least a bit more realistic than that.
When I wrote this, I remembered the whole dream. I still do. When I flew, it was the type of dream flying where I had to run. Except it wasn't exactly like that.
The other night, I dreamt that I was in a beach house, a huge one with three floors, a wrap-around porch, and windows everywhere. The stairs outside led to the second floor instead of the first. The house was elevated on stilts, so the stairway was long and steep. When it reached the ground, the stairs kept going until the steps were the ground.
It was a beach house, but it wasnt't located at a beach. In fact, it was in a field. A field of browning grass that reached up to my shoulders. There was a grove of pine trees next to the house, and they were small enough to be Christmas trees. They might have been intended to be Christmas trees, because they were lined up perfectly.
I was on the porch, looking down at the trees. I walked around to the stairs and began to run. I ran down the stairs as fast as I could, and when I reached a landing at the middle of the staircase, I jumped.
I flew in the air and fell into the sky, the ground still far below. Then I fell down headfirst as if I was going to crash, but I positioned myself in a way so that I could land on my hands and feet, much like a frog or cat. I leaped up once I landed, and I flew again. I landed again, but on one hand this time. I kept going, on the ground, in the sky, diving again and again. It was as though I was performing some kind of flowing dance, twirling in the air, with hand motions that came naturally.
And then I tripped on myself in the air, and I let myself fall to the earth. I rolled myself into a ball and willingly let gravity take me, tumbling down the earth-steps and into the grass. When I finally stopped moving, I picked myself up and looked up into the clouds in the sky. They were where they should be, but they looked so far away. So out of reach.
I felt a need to reach them, a desperate feeling to be up there with them. So I climbed the stairs again and started over, knowing it was a futile attempt.
It was a poetic dream. I flew for as long as I could trust myself to dance in the air. And every time I fell, I was nimble and graceful enough to try again without stopping.
Every time, I felt like I could get closer than my previous try.
I don't think I described the house well enough. But I was flipping through a book I have at home a few days ago, and I came across a beach house that reminded me of the one I dreamt about. I don't have it with me at the moment, and I can't remember what it was called, so I can't look it up without doing unnecessary, extensive research. So check back here over the next day or two; I'll upload a picture of it later.