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I dreamt of flying again last night. It’s always the same; regardless of where I am. Sometimes I’m in a field, on the empty streets of a city, or alone in a white room. I close my eyes, bend my knees, and then hear a fluttering sound resonate loudly in my eardrums. I’m in the air and I am free. I am happy. The cycle repeats.
It’s always the same. He is there, in some way or another. Sometimes he is on the corner of the street, standing behind a tree in a forest, or standing two feet in front of me. He has dark, messy hair, cerulean-blue eyes, and smile at me in a knowing way. He is familiar, and yet, I do not know him. He doesn’t speak; he just watches. Sometimes, when I spot him in the dream, I'll crash. I fall to the ground as if I had been jumping, as if gravity finally decided to have its way with me. Then I wake up. Other times, after I see him, I rise even higher; so high, in fact, that I lose sight of the earth, darkness surrounds me, and my lungs deplete of oxygen. And then I wake up.
One night, however, things change in my dream world. I'm about to step off the edge of a building, to test myself yet again. I haven't tried to fly like this before. I am feeling reckless and angry. I am aware of my limitations and my humanity. It is Thursday. Right as I am about close the gap between my dream-body and the concrete cliff, there is a hand on my shoulder. I see him out of the corner of my eye, his face concerned as he observes my tense shoulders.
"What if I can't fly?" I ask him, my voice creeping out in a whisper.
"What do you think?" He answers my question with a question.
"I'll die." I say, looking back at the space in front of me. The air has turned misty and foreboding. I feel nothing as I stare into its face. I am not afraid.
"You will wake up as you always do."
Hopelessness erupts inside of me. It threatens to force down what I’ve found here. Here I am brave and there are no limits. Here, I can be happy.
"I don't want to wake up. I want to stay here. I want to fly." The words spill out of my mouth, sounding paltry and pathetic.
"Your spirit is troubled. I see it clearly every day." His voice changes, pity echoing through his vocal cords. I turn toward him fully, away from the edge. He is beautiful; there is an ethereal presence about him.
"Help me," I beg, "Please."
"I see that these dreams are not enough anymore. Your resolve weakens by the day, by the hour," Lines of worry and sadness become etched in his pale complexion, “your life no longer brings you joy.”
I grab his arm quickly, fully aware of my desperation, "Please, tell me what I have to do."
He looks at me calmly as my grip on him tightens, "This is only a dream. But you can make it real," he takes my hand in both of his, cradling it gingerly like a wounded baby bird, "begin to tally your dreams, count the nights that you fly, keep track, and be patient. As they say, ‘good things come to those who wait.’ It will be clear."
Confusion seeps through my veins, like a quiet poison. It is beginning to consume me. "But why, what will writing about it do?" He smiles; it is so compassionate, so warm. There is meekness about him, and yet, I can sense that there is a great power within him.
"Trust me. It will become evident to you." He replies, releasing my hand.
The nature of dreams is that they are not real; they are desires and figments of the imagination. They are meant to satisfy the wishes of the conscious mind that cannot be gratified in reality. This is what we have been told by scientists and taught by textbooks. Perhaps I am self-aware in my dreams. Perhaps this is why my countenance remains calm and collected as iridescent wings unfurl from his back and he rises, vanishing from my side and into the gray sky.
52 Thursdays; that’s how long it takes. I write about each dream, each instance of euphoria, just as he said to. Every Friday morning, it has become my tradition to pencil my desires into a notebook, as relayed to me by an angel in a dream realm. Every time I put my pen to the paper, the corners of my mouth twist up, a smile forming on my lips. It is freeing, writing and thinking about flying, being anywhere, at any time. I am traveling at will and moving at unparalleled speeds. Patience has become my tradition. I wait for Thursday nights with the notion that it is just as exciting as Christmas morning. The days in between are normal and unremarkable. Every Thursday, I know I will fly. Every Friday, it becomes recorded and permanent on sheet-white paper. Every Thursday, I have hope.
There is a knock at the door and it opens slowly. I look over from my bed, white sheets on a white mattress, in a white room, in my white clothing.
"You have a visitor." The nurse says, her head peeking into the room, her red lips shooting a gentle smile in my direction. The door closes behind the visitor, his dark hair bringing contrast to the bright walls, his sapphire eyes reflecting the sunshine shining in from the small single window. I swear it was the sunlight, but his figure appears bright, blinding, even. He is just as beautiful here, in reality. Even without his wings.
"You," I say breathlessly, "you're from my dream."
"Yes," he moves toward me and sits down of the edge of my bed, throwing a thoughtful look in my direction. "How are you feeling?"
For some reason, the question, although so normal and broad, means so much more, "I feel," I pause, "Better."
His eyes move to the notebook sitting in my lap, the pages filled with words and drawings replicated from my dreams.
"I see you have been keeping track." He says simply, "has it helped?"
Suddenly I realize the reason for his request in my dreams. The tally, the record; it begins to make sense. I knew that it was just a dream. I could never truly fly; still, a hope had been embedded in my mind since the night of that dream. It was unrealistic, sure, but it had kept me going.
"That was the point, wasn't it?" I ask, shaking my head and looking at him earnestly.
That knowing smile that I know only from my dreams returns, "Yes. It solidified your hope and your happiness in a world that is meaningful, although impossible to recreate in this reality."
A small laugh escaped my lips, "You said I could make it real."
"And you did...through your writing. It has brought you contentment, has it not?"
My eyes move from him to my wheelchair, stationed faithfully behind my bed. It does not look so bleak anymore as it had begun to when it first made my acquaintance. Hating it had become my tradition; but not anymore.
"Yes," I say, feeling tears forms behind my eyelids. My sleeve moves to my face as if by reflex, wiping vulnerability and embarrassment from my eyes. I feel a warm presence on my cheek and then a cooling sensation moves through my body from head to toe. I feel strange.
When I open my eyes again, he is gone. I look around worriedly; I imagined him, he was never real. He was too dazzling, too good to be true. Despair grabs a hold of me again...and then my knee twitches, as if someone had unexpectedly tapped it with a pencil. It is reminiscent of a child at a pediatrician’s office. The reflex test, they call it. My pulse begins to jump and, despite common sense and the resounding words of all the doctors in my head telling me otherwise, I swing my legs off the edge of my bed and touch them on the linoleum. The floor is cold. My feet can feel the temperature and tense in response.
With careful and slow movements, my hands grasping the bed's headboard for support, I nervously put weight on my legs. They are no longer strong or able to carry me for miles without stopping, but they allow me to stand. Tears run down my face again as I realize what has happened. Patience and Thursdays had become my traditions and my reasons to live until today. Today, I had been given wings.