Flying is an act of humility; ingenuity without overreach; the quiet dependability of Pegasus above the irreverent hubris of Icarus.
We fly not for the exclamation mark, but the hyphen and the ellipsis.
Not for the absolute black and white of the declarative, but the endless blue of the conjunctional, the run-on sentence.
We fly to be closer to those we lost, and to find ourselves in roots buried in faraway lands.
We fly to bend gravity, and time — distance measured in years.
We fly for the magic, for that glint of preternatural evolution gleaming off the wings, to marvel at how far travel has come since snakes had legs.
We fly for the serenity that comes after surrendering all control, when all we have power over is to be.