Blog Dis
Three kinds of flying
2023-12-26
I let my coat drop to the ground. I spread out my arms wide and once more I was flying like an eagle, catching hot air, engaging in an activity what an ornithologist would call thermal soaring. I felt empowered, and at ease, tipping my arms and body to change directions and speed. That is perhaps the best kind of reckless flying, in dreams, in the realm of the subconscious, which apparently, and according to my dream interpretations book, is trying to tell me that I really want to escape, that I need to escape or whatever it is that my sleeping brain wants to avoid.
The second kind of flying is on manufactured wings, jets and propeller-driven planes, handgliders, and wing-suits for the mad and fearless, where you leap off the edge of a mountain. These by far are the more accepted forms of flying (and for some the most unnerving too). Hopefully, when flying in a plane you can rest easy knowing the auto-pilot is in full control, with bona-fide pilots for back-up. For sure, the food is sub-par and the people are often annoying, more so if kids are in tow. The flight attendants, too, may not bother to hide their annoyance if you ask for anything. Flying in a manufactured apparatus, with its obvious downsides, therefore cannot hold water to flying in a dream.
The third kind of flying is the self-conjured variety that eases you into a peaceful slumber, the kind of flying that comes to you on the tip of a man's tongue, pleasuring you like a form of body-flying. Your sense of well-being is elevated, you lift off, climax and land. If, however, you're alone, you still get to fly, only on the wings of imagination, to float in the realm of outrageous fantasy. I asked a friend years back what did she think about when she self-pleasured and her reply was succinct, bold. "Oh you know, the usual... I'm getting banged by a team of hockey players on centre ice..." Wowzers! That's what I call a high-flying fantasy, to answer only to yourself and imagination. No amount of porn videos can capture the same spirit of freedom. Porn hasn't been conjured in your mind, rather in the mind of a producer, nor is porn rooted in the depths of your imagination. Porn gets boring. Real fast. Whereas, an erotic fantasy that is born from the imagination costs nothing to conjure up at will or to reproduce over and over, or in whatever shape or form that best jives with your pleasuring set-points, at that moment in time. The high sky of fantasy is limitless and is it therefore superior to dream flying?
I live on the 8th floor. When I peer over the balcony railing, to look way, way down at the ground, a hint of vertigo can sometimes hit. Not ever though have I felt compelled to hurl myself over the edge. My logical sense of awareness understands that this isn't a fantasy. I cannot fly, much as I'd like to, no matter how hard I flap my arms. When I travel to exotic countries, I'll board the plane, having shelled out my hard-earned coin for a good seat, Premium Economy; a seating category on some airlines that comes between the best and worst. My pocket book is closely monitored, and sometimes I'll save for years before embarking on another adventure to a new country. I adore travel, which for me is like realizing a long-held fantasy of what a new country might be like, until I experience it first hand. This third variety of flying is therefore highly desired yet not necessarily engaged in as an activity that can be practiced on a daily basis. Fantasizing about the next trip and to where I'll go has its limits.
In the meantime, in between real-life travel, I can fly whenever I choose, in my imagination, a purposeful and directed fantasy or, there is the less controlled variety of flying - an errant dream that feels right and true and bloody-well as real as life, right up until the moment when I wake up.
The second kind of flying is on manufactured wings, jets and propeller-driven planes, handgliders, and wing-suits for the mad and fearless, where you leap off the edge of a mountain. These by far are the more accepted forms of flying (and for some the most unnerving too). Hopefully, when flying in a plane you can rest easy knowing the auto-pilot is in full control, with bona-fide pilots for back-up. For sure, the food is sub-par and the people are often annoying, more so if kids are in tow. The flight attendants, too, may not bother to hide their annoyance if you ask for anything. Flying in a manufactured apparatus, with its obvious downsides, therefore cannot hold water to flying in a dream.
The third kind of flying is the self-conjured variety that eases you into a peaceful slumber, the kind of flying that comes to you on the tip of a man's tongue, pleasuring you like a form of body-flying. Your sense of well-being is elevated, you lift off, climax and land. If, however, you're alone, you still get to fly, only on the wings of imagination, to float in the realm of outrageous fantasy. I asked a friend years back what did she think about when she self-pleasured and her reply was succinct, bold. "Oh you know, the usual... I'm getting banged by a team of hockey players on centre ice..." Wowzers! That's what I call a high-flying fantasy, to answer only to yourself and imagination. No amount of porn videos can capture the same spirit of freedom. Porn hasn't been conjured in your mind, rather in the mind of a producer, nor is porn rooted in the depths of your imagination. Porn gets boring. Real fast. Whereas, an erotic fantasy that is born from the imagination costs nothing to conjure up at will or to reproduce over and over, or in whatever shape or form that best jives with your pleasuring set-points, at that moment in time. The high sky of fantasy is limitless and is it therefore superior to dream flying?
I live on the 8th floor. When I peer over the balcony railing, to look way, way down at the ground, a hint of vertigo can sometimes hit. Not ever though have I felt compelled to hurl myself over the edge. My logical sense of awareness understands that this isn't a fantasy. I cannot fly, much as I'd like to, no matter how hard I flap my arms. When I travel to exotic countries, I'll board the plane, having shelled out my hard-earned coin for a good seat, Premium Economy; a seating category on some airlines that comes between the best and worst. My pocket book is closely monitored, and sometimes I'll save for years before embarking on another adventure to a new country. I adore travel, which for me is like realizing a long-held fantasy of what a new country might be like, until I experience it first hand. This third variety of flying is therefore highly desired yet not necessarily engaged in as an activity that can be practiced on a daily basis. Fantasizing about the next trip and to where I'll go has its limits.
In the meantime, in between real-life travel, I can fly whenever I choose, in my imagination, a purposeful and directed fantasy or, there is the less controlled variety of flying - an errant dream that feels right and true and bloody-well as real as life, right up until the moment when I wake up.
