David Copperfield can fly. It’s magic. He flies like superman or a fairy. That’s why I tried to fly.

I climbed to the top of my little brother’s treehouse, taking in every detail, knowing full well that I might fall. I felt the splinters from the shoddily made steps pierce my skin but not their pain, the adrenaline blocking the excruciation.
I was grinning so wide when I reached the balcony of that treehouse that all thought of failure seemed to have flown from my mind.

I stood up, precociously balancing myself on the edge of the flimsy wood, eyes closed, wind in my hair, arms wide. I was going to fly, I knew it.
I took one step forward and began to fall, forever thinking myself up. Then my senses kicked in. Any minute now, I thought. I’m going to hit the ground and die. Any minute now.

Only I didn’t. When I opened my eyes I couldn’t even see the treehouse. I was soaring like superman or a fairy. I was David Copperfield. I was flying.