It is the uncertainty we long for, the moment at the edge, the possibility of infinity. It is not the held breath nor its release that we desire but rather what comes in between: the anticipation, the lightheadedness, the point at which we could deviate from the familiar, the tangible, the known. And when we fail, time and time again, to venture where we have not been before, we should not be surprised. We were not made to remember the way; we were not made to last. Living is a process of forgetting. And so it is only in dreams that we may recall, fleetingly, the treachery of being born, the heaviness of air, the grace of flight.