My feet go through the solid ground

People don't tell you the truth of flying.

That it feels good at first, but for some people, some people who have spent their lives searching for the ground, the ground that is supposed to be the stable middle, we go past the clouds. Past the stars, the planets, the galaxies that twine around your legs like frothy milk, to the non-existence that stops air from getting to your lungs.

They don't tell you that joy can hurt more than the deep sea levels that seem to be the only other choice, because even though the fish are deadly, my god are they beautiful. 

They don't tell you why Icarus flew only close to the sun, but I know why because I have touched it, and it melted the skin off my fingertips like I was made of soft wax instead of flesh and bone. And I am scared, oh god, I am scared, but I need to fall, even if it crushes every single bone.

After all, without the ocean, all I am is ash.

Without the ocean, I will simply blow away.