When I was a kid, I used to dream that I could glide around my house on a paper aeroplane. The paper aeroplane wouldn’t get bigger but I would get smaller. I would fit in the slip between the folded paper and just glide. I would glide all around my house. From my living room to my kitchen to my bedroom. Hands holding tightly onto the folds, making sure I was tucked between its wings so I wouldn’t fall out. And I would lean from left to right. Past my screaming father, past my emotionally bruised mother and through the open window. Free from the violence and the uncertainty.
Free from the irregular outbursts of anger forever.
This never happened, of course. I would return slowly, slowly out of my daydreams and wake up in a world of frequent irregular outburst from a father who would release his anger through slaps to the face and kicks to the torso. Anger in his eyes and shouts spitting my way. Purging away at my sense of self.
The only place that seemed safe was in my daydreams. In my paper aeroplane, cruising through the thin sky, avoiding the tainted air that surrounded my father.
Safe forever in my daydreams. Only one could hope the same would happen in reality.