The closest I have ever come to flying in my life, is sitting on a swing, as a little kid, and even now, when I get the chance to do it. The rusty chains would creak as I lunged forward, and then backwards, closing my eyes, picturing myself sitting on a cloud, the wind ruffling my short hair, my short legs barely touching the ground. But when time came to get off the swing and step foot on reality again, I always hated the noise the dirt would make under the soles of my shoes. Despised the red pebbles that crawled into my tiny socks. As I walked hand in hand with myself, I stared at the clouds and wondered: “why won't you let me up?”. I returned to wherever I was supposed to be, and my ephemeral moment in heaven was forgotten. But whenever I saw a swing, I would climb on it, forgetting anything else, forgetting all the other games, I had grown wings, nobody could talk to me, for I was above any body else. But most of all, I was free.