"Thomas! Thomas Kapori, get your lazy ass out of bed!" A slim figure clad in striped boxers fell from the bed with a thud. "Does she have to call me that? It makes me feel so...ordinary. Thomas. It's such a plain name, y'know? I think Tombo really does suit me better, I don't care if you think it's goofy. It's original. Who doesn't want to be original, huh Ma?" He spoke words unheard to anyone but himself, words he spoke nearly every morning when his full name was screeched loud enough to wake the entire city.
"THOMAS. AKINO. KAPORI. NOW." He still didn't bother to respond. In his opinion, she didn't deserve a response. She always treated him like he was an idiot, a dreamer with dreams that would never come to fruition. She did nothing but put him down, starting with the moment he woke up to the moment he went to sleep. He wanted to escape, to fly away, somewhere that she couldn't bring him down to Earth.
Somewhere that no one could find him, could tell him that his wishes were impossible.
He wasn't stupid, he knew nothing was impossible. If someone thought that made him stupid, then happiness for them will be an impossible feat.
Tombo ran from the house as quick as he could, making as much noise as possible to alert his mother that he was awake, and leaving. He didn't bother to get his bike, he wanted to walk, to take everything slow for once. No one to rush him, to wake him up from beautiful dreams. Sometimes, he felt like life itself was a beautiful dream. It had to be, right?
People say most dreams are too far-fetched to ever come true, to ever hold a shred of truth or possibility. If that's the case, then how did airplanes come to be? Dirigibles? Hot air balloons? Someone dreamt they were floating through the sky, or soaring at top speed. They dreamt they were above everyone, above every worry and every negative thought. So close to the sun, the clouds, the endless canvas of blue. How could you feel anything but positivity? Tombo spent hours staring at the sky, or sleeping and falling back into his own thoughts of flight and carefree feelings.
Truthfully, he knew this was less productive than actually working to make these dreams come true that much quicker...but sometimes, he needed them right then. He needed them to suck him in and never spit him out again. He needed to fly. But even apart from dreams, life itself was so full of things that seemed the equivalent to flying. Like the smell of brand new books, the feel of cobblestone through loafer soles, or the shimmer a bob of chestnut hair gives off in the afternoon light.
Sometimes, Tombo closed his eyes, and he didn't see the sky, didn't see himself flying his man-propelled plane. He saw the tip of an old broomstick, and the ankle of a young witch. He wanted to see more, see cheeks and lips and eyes, but he got too embarrassed to let his mind wander to a girl who thought he was nothing more than a clown. How could a witch like her, a girl who grew up among the clouds, ever think of him any differently than his mother did? How could a girl like that think his dreams of flying weren't just...boring, or silly?
To her, it's so simple, it's like breathing, so he must look like such an idiot, talking of nothing but flight, the one thing she knows better than the back of her hand. If he keeps her behind his eyelids, the outline of her dark dress flapping against his lashes, he won't have the chance to make an idiot of himself, and that's the one thing Tombo simply can't do anymore, for himself and for everyone around him. It's best if he keeps to his dreams