The smog clings to the city. A thick brown coat that chokes and deadens. The heat is stifling and uncreative. At the edge of Platteklip Gorge the breeze rustles grasses and brushes past my neck. The voices of the celebrating walkers echo up to me. The sun is burning on my back. Brief bird noises float past me, insects buzzing in my face, and in the distance the sound of traffic. The geranium and rooibos smell of the fynbos soothes and calms.
If I could fly I would. Stretch my wings and soar. Allow the wind to snatch me up and glide me over the edge, through the gorge and graze the cliffs of Table Mountain. I would twirl around Devil’s peak and Lions Head. Flash past the city, dip my feet into the sea, hover over Robben Island.
And when my journey was over I would come back to this point. This rock. This life. This me.