Drifting

The young boy woke up floating, effortlessly above his own little, living, breathing, body that could be clearly seen below with his own intangible eyes, drifting… as if he were a concealed cloud or Zephyr wind suspended within the borders of his bedroom walls. A sky full of galaxies and stars were luminously enticing and inviting him beyond the curtains and outskirts of his window as he wondered what it might be like to let go of his attachments to the familiar, sleeping boy in bed, his mother, father, family, friends, and plastic airplane models he had recently assembled, painted and placed on cluttered shelves along with Mark Twain story books and seashells around his azure blue painted boyhood bedroom cocoon. It was all he could do to keep from drifting through the beckoning window, the ceiling or watchful walls leading upwards and outwards toward some place he thought he knew well enough to call "Home Sweet Home" and yet, something akin to nothingness suddenly surrounded this new-found phantom, ghost-like, being curiously whispering and causing him to realize it was not yet time for him to fly and instead, decided to surrender and reenter that other boy's body, brain, and mind still lying there in bed. Before awaking to the warming glow of glorious, Sunday morning sunlight beams and wondering, if floating weightlessly above himself was as real as chocolate ice cream or nothing more than another delirious dream.