Altitude

ALTITUDE

The wish begins low in the body, long before it ever touches the sky.

A tightness beneath the ribs, a pressure that wants direction more than comfort.

Not a plea to vanish—just the quiet, stubborn desire to rise.

To imagine being a bird is to imagine a body that does not argue with itself.

A body that knows motion without negotiation.

A body that does not need permission to leave the ground.

Up there, the world does not disappear.

It simply rearranges itself into something you can finally understand.

The noise becomes pattern.

The demands flatten into shapes you can name without drowning in them.

Everything that once pressed against your skin becomes small enough to hold at arm’s length.

Altitude is not escape.

Altitude is perspective.

From above, the map of your life stops being a maze.

You can see the paths you’ve taken, the ones you refused,

the ones you were forced into,

the ones you carved out of sheer will.

You can see where the ground buckled beneath you

and where you kept walking anyway.

Distance is not abandonment.

Distance is the right to decide what deserves your closeness.

The air at that height is thin, almost sharp.

It stings in a way that feels honest.

There is no performance up there, no audience, no need to soften your edges.

Your wings—imagined or otherwise—move because they must.

Because motion is the only truth that matters.

Below, the world continues its small catastrophes.

People call your name, assign you roles,

ask you to carry what was never yours.

But from above, you can finally see the difference

between what is essential

and what is simply loud.

You understand, suddenly,

that you are allowed to rise without apologizing.

You are allowed to choose altitude over proximity.

You are allowed to protect your vantage point.

Flight is not freedom from responsibility.

It is freedom from distortion.

Up there, you can look down and decide—

with clarity, not fear—

what you will return to,

what you will release,

and what you will never let touch you again.

And when you descend—because you always do—

you carry the sky with you.

Not as fantasy,

but as proof that you are more than the ground you walk on.