(a poem)

In dreams I rise.

Not fly. Not soar.

Just rise.

Suddenly, magically,

By no effort of my own,

I am taken up. Weightless.

But I can still see the ground.

I float out of a busy church,

Then down a city street, three stories up.

No one sees. No one cares.

Their lives continue on the ground,

But I am free.

In the sky I am never weary.

I don’t need to analyze every thought or feeling.

There is no need to think of sorrows,

Of imperfect relationships,

Of pain.

When I float I have no fear of dementia,

Or addiction, or mental illness.

I am alone in the sky; there is no expectation of sanity.

In rising my muscles will never grow sore,

My head won’t ache, I won’t grow dizzy.

I will never wake up in the dark, scared and upset,

Coated in sweat like paint, yet frozen in a coldness that comes from fear.

There’s no need for sleep in the sky.

On earth I am heavy, hurt, weak, and afraid.

When I rise I am carried in graceful hands.

On the ground I toil, carrying my burdens in my mind and body.

I carry rocks for people who can’t carry their own,

And the fight, and the weight of expectations and responsibility grind me slowly and painfully into the ground.

Gravity itself is my sorrow.

The sky, you see, is where I belong,

And my cells are homesick.

Someday I will rise and never come down.

Until then I will walk.

Written by Melanie Makovsky

Photos by Bryan Minear, Ankush Minda, Palash Jain, and Alessio Lin.