This is my favorite place to be on a plane.
Right above the wing so I can look out my window and think, these flimsy sandwiches of metal are what is making this possible. With each creak I think this might be it and I picture the wings peeling away from the side of the plane, snagging chunks of metal from the body, and maybe me along with it. That would be an interesting way to go.
But this is still my favorite place to be.
Maybe I like knowing that my fragile life nests on the delicate shoulders of something so temperamental.
Flying at night always astounds me. The lights of the world that never seem to turn off softly outlining the wings. And the moon always looks so much brighter from here, above the clouds. It’s nice really. I think about going to sleep with the roar of the engines as a lullaby I never heard growing up. With the lights of the city as the glow in the dark stars I always wanted above my bed - illuminating my dreams.
Instead I look over my shoulder to the woman playing soduko out of the crappy complimentary magazines. She has some of the numbers wrong, but I think telling her would make me sound like an ass, so I don't say anything. I can tell she's struggling with it from the look of her furrowed brow distorting her smooth forehead into one that belongs to a 70 year old man's.
The wing is blocking out the city lights now. Not as majestic, but somehow makes me think mans invention will in the end mask over everything beautiful with it's cold, un-beating engines.
The woman's elbow is slowly crawling into my space. I think of telling her again, but instead I just fidget obnoxiously. She gets the hint and awkwardly glances my way as she places her delicate fingertips into her mouth to pick at a hangnail with her teeth. I find this unattractive.
The stuartess is making her way down the aisle. She doesn't care about the outstretched elbows as she carelessly bumps into them with every step. As she takes our order, she leans on the seat in front of us.
Right above the wing so I can look out my window and think, these flimsy sandwiches of metal are what is making this possible. With each creak I think this might be it and I picture the wings peeling away from the side of the plane, snagging chunks of metal from the body, and maybe me along with it. That would be an interesting way to go.
But this is still my favorite place to be.
Maybe I like knowing that my fragile life nests on the delicate shoulders of something so temperamental.
Flying at night always astounds me. The lights of the world that never seem to turn off softly outlining the wings. And the moon always looks so much brighter from here, above the clouds. It’s nice really. I think about going to sleep with the roar of the engines as a lullaby I never heard growing up. With the lights of the city as the glow in the dark stars I always wanted above my bed - illuminating my dreams.
Instead I look over my shoulder to the woman playing soduko out of the crappy complimentary magazines. She has some of the numbers wrong, but I think telling her would make me sound like an ass, so I don't say anything. I can tell she's struggling with it from the look of her furrowed brow distorting her smooth forehead into one that belongs to a 70 year old man's.
The wing is blocking out the city lights now. Not as majestic, but somehow makes me think mans invention will in the end mask over everything beautiful with it's cold, un-beating engines.
The woman's elbow is slowly crawling into my space. I think of telling her again, but instead I just fidget obnoxiously. She gets the hint and awkwardly glances my way as she places her delicate fingertips into her mouth to pick at a hangnail with her teeth. I find this unattractive.
The stuartess is making her way down the aisle. She doesn't care about the outstretched elbows as she carelessly bumps into them with every step. As she takes our order, she leans on the seat in front of us.
