This is jumping skyward, a day with no plans, the dreams of children. It is beyond explaination. It is delights and wonders and something new. It's creativity. It's laziness. It's elation. It's love. It's forward and backward and upward and downward and every direction in between.
It invites you to come along with it, and you say yes, and then it nods, as if to say: "I knew you would say that." But you don't really understand what it is, do you? You can go with it, but only if you know what it means to be seven again, or twelve, or maybe eight. But no boys allowed.
It takes you through the sky, and then up beyond the fiery shell of atmosphere, into the black abyss, dotted with stars, millions and billions of them all shining down upon you. You grip its hand and it flies forward, smiling back on you. You're traveling so fast, but any slower and you wouldn't know what's going on because you need that speed, you need that, or it'll disappear and maybe leave you there.
You're gliding forward, gripping its hand, and you're wide-eyed, but even with your saucer eyes it's impossible to take everything in all at once. There's everything around you, dust made of diamonds or maybe glitter, and you run your hand through it as you pass by and it's soft, softer than the softest thing you've ever touched.
It sweeps around and you follow it, but you realize it's returning to where you left. You fight. You don't want to go. It forces you. You don't want to go.
It sets you down and you almost throw a tantrum (you're eight. Twelve? Seven?) but it says "There will be times and times again soon. Just wait."
You can wait. It'll happen again soon. Just wait.