My stomach drops to my feet—jumps to my throat—
but I am content with the feeling of being thrown
around at the mercy of a poorly trained teenager, looking to
make a couple bucks, so long as I can shut
my eyes for just one weightless moment and lose myself
in nothing. Enthusiasts look for speed and
airtime in an industry that prioritizes efficiency over mechanical
creativity, but I am clutching at the feeling of controlled
fear in a world that scares me daily. I am more likely to
die in an Uber than a metal rollercoaster car intended to
translate fear into thrill, purposefully instigating the release
of adrenaline in the bloodstream. The temporary
high is a tasty side effect, but I live for the
separation from the seat, held down only by

a simple lap bar. Enthusiasts prefer lap bars over overhead restraints
for the freedom to fly—unrestricted from experiencing
the weightless joy of negative g-forces. For those
seconds, I am removed from the gravity of the things
that burden me. Responsibilities. Stressors. My
weight. Everything I want to say, everything caught
in my throat, is expelled into the choking winds of air
swallowed at 70 miles per hour as I scream into
the sky. I am soaring and, if given the opportunity to do so
safely, I would release my lap bar and feel true
freedom from gravity. Instead, I breathe only for the
opportunity to lose it on my next ride. I go to sleep, replay
the mental footage of every coaster
I’ve been on like it is my religion; reread the carefully
curated list of international theme parks
that I will one day visit, like it is my bible; and praise
the engineers that create ways to fly,
as if they were my gods.