One of these days I'll anchor my feet in sand, and let the waves spray salt on my legs like the faces of sheer cliffs. The wind will trace the features of my face with fingers fair, and for a moment I will feel solid. I will be bound to the ocean by the water in my blood, and the salts of my pores, returned to its roots like some prodigal son of the sea.

Until then, let these mornings serve as a reminder. I am consistently stumbling; rolling backwards on bruised heels. Balance will be the end of me, and my stability is still an illusion. Security is static, and everything else is progress.

This isn't flying. It's falling with style.