Our wings are small, do you know? Our wings barely extend past our hooves when one stretches their forelimbs as wide as they can.
So I’m grateful.
I’m thankful.
I’m sad.
My first flight was a beautiful thing. A drop from Cloudsdale, a frightening leap and the pure rush of adrenaline as I fell to my death.
No sooner had the euphoria of saving myself from an untimely end had passed that I appreciated the majesty, the utter beauty that was flying.
The wind flowing through the strands of my mane, the soft warmth of the sunlight on my coat, the gentle caress of thermals and the feverish rush of air currents that pulsed along the atmosphere.
I love the change of scenery as the beautiful emerald fields of soft meadows, rough trees and hardened stone all shrink and blur to the insignificant when you reach out and touch the sky with your hoof.
I’ve been to places while flying.
Beyond Equestria.
I’ve seen things over there.
Rocky mountains.
Severed plains.
Deep oceans.
To the new and old.
Then there were the storms. Glorious, glorious storms.
Untempered nature, wild and rugged. I flew among the winds that were a part of me and yet, were not. The winds resisted my efforts to master them, my wings had grown sore and my breathing had become laboured. Just as I were to give up, I realised my error. I was fighting nature. And one does not fight nature, both within and without. I flowed with the wind currents and let the gentle buffeting of the harsh winds nudge and guide me on course. I survived the majestic beast. I had ridden the storm.
There are times when I look back, I ponder why I feel this way about flying. My musings never turn to regret, but I often wonder what would have happened if I had not been born with wings. What would I do, staying on the ground? Would I still want to reach up and touch the sky? Would I even look up once in a while and desire to be among that which is celestial?
These musings do not last long. I am already free, I do not need to be bound by chains. Not anymore. Not ever again.
The air at high altitudes is different. It is not like the air at the ground. For some it is less, for me it is more.
The air feels so pure when you fly. Rationally, I know it is physically pure, free from the dense chemicals that hang low in cities like Manehattan, free from dust and dirt in the outskirts of frontiers like Appleloosa and strangely comforting, free from other ponies…
The air is pure and unfettered, it is like me.
The first thing I do in the morning is stretch my wings. My primaries are in a disarray and I preen them carefully, luxuriating in the comfortable feeling of straightening and shaping my form that allows me to fly. A pegasus can still fly with tattered feathers, but I take pride in my form. It’s one of the rare things I’m still thankful for because it allows me to reach for the heavens.
My wings allow me to do incredible things. With it, I am faster than any land-bound pony. With it, I feel safer than any land-bound creature. With it, I feel freer than anything on this world. I have heard of ponies that perform tricks and shows with their wings. Sometimes, in a complex mood, I go to see them. They seem to enjoy themselves in the air and I empathise with that, for I knew the joys of flying. I just… I just didn’t feel the need to make it a sport. They train hours and hours and sometimes they stress themselves out with the need to improve themselves. It only puzzles me. I like flying, it calms me down, to stress yourself out flying seems to defeat the purpose of it in the first place.
But I don’t comment on their choices. For theirs is a passion similar to mine and I can see it in their fierce, fierce, eyes. I smile sometimes when I see other ponies like that. It makes me happy that some ponies can live carefree.
Flying at night is so different than the day, but I enjoy it nevertheless.
The winds that rush through my sensitive ears are no longer cool and breezy but cold and biting. It reminds me of the storm sometimes but it also reminds me of home. Sometimes, under the starlight, I watch the stars twinkle as I glide lazily towards my meandering destinations. The air is cool and the moonlight is soft. It is a different feeling and often it complements my mood.
The emerald fields are replaced by muted olives, the sapphire blue sky is replaced by midnight velvet and stars that speckle the sky are mirrored in the small clusters of lights sparsely outlining the hearths and homes below. When I spot these glowing pinpricks scattered among the landscape I feel a surge of indescribable feelings. Warmth, mainly, but also a little hope and a little fear.
Sometimes, I fly in the rain at night.
It’s different. There’s no wild wind, it is soft, almost whimsical. The rain doesn’t sting, it is gentle. I can’t see the skies. I can’t even see much in front of me but it feels so right somehow. It suits my mood in the darker hours of the night. Where most are normally content to stay in the radiating glow of their toasty fires or their snug blankets, I revelled in the wet sensation soaking into my fur. I played in the reach of the wild finding its home among me, with me.
Gradually though, my passions had changed. The wild, wild nature called to me, but in a different manner than I expected. I didn’t want to go this way. I didn’t want it taken away from me like this. I don’t know what I expected but I felt a part of me slip away.
I knew then that time was against me.
No longer could I ride in the wind and touch the stars. No longer could I taste the thrill of flight and sample the delights of freedom under the graceful skies. My wings were becoming more strained with each pull and the pure grey-lilac sheen had dulled slightly.
I began to dread the day that I would flap my wings and find that I would stay on the ground. Knots would tie my stomach as I considered the possibility that my reach would be confined to the height of a doorframe.
I made a decision.
There was a mountain and a valley not too far from where I lived. The mountains were high and treacherous. Each step I took was fraught with peril. Several times I had slipped on a loose pebble or a shifting rock and I scrabbled to keep my balance. If I fell it would not be like before, where a single beat of my beautiful wings would set me upright and on course. Today, if I slipped, I would meet a premature end. One I couldn’t decide.
I hated that.
I hated even the thought of that.
So I gritted my teeth and strode ever forward to scale the deceptive terrain. Dirty brown stones eclipsed my vision and I found myself longing fiercely for the azure of the sky. My struggling became so pronounced that I had to take a break several times. Eventually though, at the zenith of the day, I made it to the summit.
I wept tears of joy.
Though it was not the same vista of my beloved sky view, this panorama, this painting of beautiful and bountiful nature, tugged at my soul and I felt it flood through my eyes. I stretched my wings in preparation and tensed my muscles, ready to leap off into the abyss.
I don’t know why, but I paused.
This was not the right moment.
I slowly folded my wings to my sides as complicated emotions stormed within me.
I laid my head on my hooves and slowly sank down, letting my mind drift as I waited for the right moment.
After an indeterminable amount of time, my heart surged within my chest. The time was definitely right.
It would be the twilight, I thought and I smiled to myself.
The time when the heavens met the earth, when the night mixed with the day. I took in the splashes of orange and green that slashed through the land before me and I stretched my wings again, feeling a flowing sensation of comfort work its way from the ends of my tail to the tip of my hooves.
No longer wishing to wait a moment longer, I pounced into the void, feeling the rushing wind against my fur as I sped towards the ground.
I snapped my wings out and strained with all my might. I was flung back into the upper altitudes and with a giddy cry of joy, I announced to my surrounds that I was content, happy and free.
I soared across the valley of shifting, golden sands and spotted the narrow gorge at its end. I glided with my hooves stretched out like a foal on her first flight. I entered the barren geological mass in a rush of whistling wind and a swift contrail of amethyst hue. I felt the currents around me raise me high, higher than I anticipated and I laughed at the unpredictability of the winds even after all this time I had known them.
Rusty stones passed below me as I flitted by. Outcroppings and overhangs I weaved and dodged around and finally I burst out of the gorge in a giggling fit of utter and pure joy. I spied the thick dense forest below me and I admired the thick, entangled mass of vegetation. I felt a small twitch in my flight, imperceptible but for the shiver in my streaming wake. Though I had never felt more alive, my journey had taken its toll. I felt the beginnings of a cramp seized in my wings and I heaved and gasped for air.
I pushed. Oh I pushed hard. I couldn’t afford to stop now, now that I was so close.
I spotted the glow of my home and I heaved a heady sigh of relief.
With barely a few moments before my wings had given up altogether, I crashed in a heap outside my humble abode. I felt the stark pain of my poorly executed landing make itself known but I didn't pay heed to any of it. I felt a vague sense of accomplishment wash through me because it felt like my first flight and I was happy.
But I also felt a tinge of emptiness follow through.
On shaky hooves, I pulled myself up and clambered to the door, fumbling with my mouth to unlock it. Inside, I was greeted by three pairs of shocked eyes as they took in my bruised and battered form.
“What happened to you?” I heard my husband say in horror as he rushed over to prop up my swaying form.
I smiled at him, and gave a weak laugh.
“I went out to fly.”
Author's Note
I don't know I just felt the dark urge to write this. It's probably trash but this quite accurately sums up how I feel right now.
I must be getting emotions. Fancy that.
