There are weights on my back. Just between and below my shoulder blades, on each side of my spine. Heavily they weigh down; I feel them there. Much like the way your arm will feel if you have been carrying too much. That stress that your muscles use to tell you that they are unhappy.
If I close my eyes, and look at my self-image from inside, I have wings. I'm not used to their weight. I don't know where they came from. They seem, in my mind's eye, to be the right proportion of size to mass for flight. Even so, I know that the muscles lack the training they need to even hold me in a simple glide from a small jump. They're simply unused, but that is an easy thing to fix with time.
I stretch them out, feeling the muscles in my back and legs strain to holds these unfamiliar weights. I stagger to remain with my balance. With this strain, more hope than pain is carried. I could fly with these wings, in time.
I open my eyes.
I have no wings.
My muscles still hurt.