I've finally begun to have some faith in my potential.
Not to say it was completely absent before now but I could tell I'd wrapped it up tightly in a swaddling of over-analysis and bereft spirit.

And yet here I sit, new found excitement and propulsion rocketing me into a state of flight...or perhaps pre-flight.
I'm not quite airborne just yet.
But I know I'm well on my way.

I've seen the beauty of a fresh, crisp morning droop sloppily into a dank and uncomfortably gray afternoon only to once again rise from the cloudy ashes to exquisite, dawn like brightness.

In that metaphor is easy to assume that I'm like the daylight or even the sun itself however I choose to think of myself as being, well, me.
The person standing on the last corner of a rough rooftop, staring into the oblivion of an azure, to stone, to miracle sky.
It's all surrounding me in a watercolor blend.
I feel the occasional pebble interrupting the sloping tiles like periods in a descriptive paragraph, punctuating the otherwise apparent floor with the reminder that it's actually a ceiling...and I am above it.

Maybe this is flying.