To Fly, Even Once

Have you ever felt it—a small red point beating somewhere deep inside you, without reason, yet undeniably alive?
A longing that does not need explanation, has never been spoken aloud, yet exists with quiet certainty within you alone.
A sensation that refuses to disappear, no matter how rationally you suppress it, no matter how carefully you try to silence it.

Even when the weight of reality—the gravity of limitations and the voices of caution—keeps pulling us toward the ground, that red point continues to pulse quietly at the center of the heart.

Its faint rhythm whispers a simple invitation: fly.

And the moment we listen, we feel it—that unmistakable proof of being alive,even if the ending is a fall already foreseen.

We often begin with courage, only to retreat when hardship appears.

When our pace slows,
when direction blurs,
when certainty begins to waver,
people say it was a mistake to start,
that turning back would be wiser.

But only those who have stood, even briefly, beneath that scorching sun know the truth.

Burned wings and broken knees are not shameful scars, but quiet medals earned only by those who dared to fly closest.
They mark the moment one discovered—through the body—how far one could truly go.

The yellow fragments scattered across the deep blue sky are not remnants of tragedy, but sparks of celebration, proof that a life once burned with everything it had.
Even the scars left behind by trial and error are, at their core, evidence of having lived.

Yet, we still fear the fall.
We imagine the impact in advance, choose not to fly at all, and call that decision wisdom.

This timid wisdom haunts our relationships as well.
It manifests as the hesitation to reach out because you fear the freefall of rejection, or the hollow persistence of staying in a connection that has long since grown cold, simply because you dread the impact of the fall itself.

Bound by practical calculations and the gravity of social expectation,
we either continue a flight that no longer stirs the soul or remain safely on the ground, never daring to take off.

It is not a life fully lived, but one merely sustained to avoid collapse.

And yet, to fly toward another with an open heart—and if that truth leads to a fall, to willingly accept it—is also a form of ascent worthy of being human.

At the end of every fall and failure, there is darkness and pain waiting.

And yet, paradoxically, it is within that deepest shadow that true learning and growth take root.
What we need is not the patience to wait for the storm to pass, but the courage to dance even as the rain pours down.

By choosing not to fly, we avoid the fall—but we also forfeit forever the ecstasy of ascent.

Here lies life’s paradox.

It is often at the moment we realize we can no longer live in the same way as before that a deeper freedom is born.

Physical limitations,
the shell of a relationship,
shifting environments,
the realization that a settled life no longer keeps us alive— these are not endings, but turning points.

We begin to fly differently.

More slowly.
In a new direction.
Not with the head,
but with the heart.

More cautiously,
yet more honestly.

The many falls we experience in life do not exist to destroy us.
They may be passages—leading us toward a more essential freedom.
Rather than a life that never lifts off out of fear of the ground, choosing to endure uncertainty and wounds for the sake of flight feels closer to what it means to live as a human being.

We live only once.

Perhaps it is worth trusting, at least once, the direction the heart insists upon over the safety calculated by the mind.

Not turning away from that red point.
Not pretending it isn’t there.

Because that quiet pulse—that is what keeps us alive.

What is the red point beating quietly inside your heart right now?
Are you covering it with the word reality— or are you preparing to fly?