journal three.

Today, I am finally flying, and when I tell you I am on the brink of shedding some tears, I promise you they are nothing but happy ones.

The sky is so beautiful. More beautiful than I remember. I feel like I can touch the clouds; I mean, I am. I am moving through them and above them and beside them. We could almost be one.

There are peaks like rolling mountains and hills like the Austin city I am temporarily parting from. They are a box of cotton balls a child is eager to dig into for her daily arts and crafts break. I am that child.

The sun shines her light on the tops, and she makes the clouds have depth. Their shadows look dark but contour in a freeing way—a show-off way; the clouds are not afraid of their curves and bumps and disfigurations. They are one with nature and all the more glorious for it.

I am finally flying, and I never want to come down. I want to live in these clouds and their softness. I want to float with them. I want to dance their lazy, loose, non-grounded dance.