I often dream and perhaps more often than not, I am lucky enough that I can remember what I have dreamt.

This morning was much like many mornings as of late. Too comfortable or too lazy to move, I lay in bed, hiding from the cold, recalling a dream similar to that of many.

I dreamt that I could fly. Though unsure of my form, nonetheless I could soar. The view was incredible; no barriers, complete freedom, friends as plentiful as the winds could carry. Far below, unaware or uncaring, familiar sights went about dealing with their plights. Moving, signing, smiling and crying, all while I soared about, far from their sight.

Slowly though, the winds died as the sun crept from the sky, its less brilliant, more pure mirror moving to takes its place high above. I could feel the cold filling the space around me, the view diminishing.

I fluttered to a landing just as the sky took to gold; Sol was being swallowed by an unforgiving horizon. Helpless, I stood and watched as the air grew colder, the fog rushing in around me. For what could I do?

As the darkness began to take hold above and below me all form was lost. I found myself in a dimensionless space, far between the places I had come from and had wanted to go.
I sat, taking firm hold of my landing. I closed my eyes, denying my surroundings, waiting for the feeling to return, for the wind to fill my wings.