When I was little, I used to lay outside and reach my hands up to the sky above, convinced I could touch the great moving clouds of if I just extended my arms a little further and run my palms over the world no ground dwellers could see. With every growth spurt, I would try again and again and again with no progress. My parents kept encouraging me.

“Never stop reaching for great hights,” my mother advised.

“There are many wonderful things up their waiting for you,” my father said.

They were never disappointed in me when they saw I was never able to do so, but there was time where I truly did rise high. There is no way I could explain it that would make them believe me. My head was throbbing, and my eyes were blinded by a yellow light. “Stupid sun,” I thought to myself. “Sometimes you need to just turn off.” A damp softness cushioned my soles, and I wanted to trot through every clump of fluff, but the light was unceasing. There were whispers of wind tangling my hair, and I swear I could hear words. Unintelligible, but natures own unique language. The sweltering heat and the voices entrapped me when I thought that being up high in the sky would be limitless. The wind became more human, true words forming, fleeting by my ears, getting louder and louder ever second. I pressed my palms hard against them, but it did nothing. The surroundings where engulfed in white, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Except when I woke up.

Needles embedded under my skin. Beeping. Wires. Tubes. Cold sweat. Sobs of relief and tight hugs.

I was never able to extend my hands towards the sky again.