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Fragment 1:
I learned to fly late, once I had already understood that the ground offered no guarantees. It was not a heroic gesture. Merely a reflex. Something snapped inside, a minor, dispensable part, and the body responded with an unexpected drift. I did not rise: I slipped, I evaporated. The air was not an open space, but a calculation error, a gray zone where no one expects you to hold on for more than a few seconds. I held on. Not out of faith or desire, but through pure inertia. While floating, I thought of everything that weighs you down without touching you: orders, proper names, promises that do not break. Flying was not escaping. It was staying without touching anything, suspended in a clumsy choreography, knowing that falling would be, in the end, the cleanest way to get somewhere.
©Nitrofoska
