The sky is so beautiful today. It's a soft blue that turns indigo the further up you tilt your eyes, but if you stare ahead, far off to the edge of the world, it dims into just a timid kiss of green held up by orange. There's a mischievous, almost invisible peek of purple around that orange and it's strange; it really is, but that's the beauty it clothed itself in for this occasion.

I've always loved the sky. Amid the noise and chaos in arms reach and rumbles and stomping beneath my tired feet, all it takes is a glance to the roof of it all and I'm new again. At least, I am for a while.

The sky never stops being beautiful. Even if it alters to be a few shades darker, it is beautiful; it is untouchable. That's why I want to fly. I want to touch the sky with my own hands, and not soar through it on a plane. I don't want to be embraced by it and then released when I land on a parachute. It's not enough; the sky is too beautiful, and it would never be enough. So I want to fly.

I want to live in the sky. I'll be seen resting on the blues, frolicking on the greens and dancing on the orange. I'll be laughing on the gray because, really, rain is not so bad after all. You'll see me wrapped around the clouds too, and when I tour with the wind under my wings you'll know I've found home.

But people can't fly, because people don't have wings. I can do so much as contemplate and applaud—and wish—but that makes my eyes' return to the ground much more unappealing.