Floating carelessly above the clouds, weightless almost like air. Sweetly trapped in a contained can. Held, suspended through the air which is thick like water. How else could we stay up in this space? The plane swims through the air like an Olympic gold medalist.
She looked out her cell-like window and could only see the white grey of clouds. They surrounded her like the fog of moors. She hungered for the touch of the earth beneath her feet. 'Traveling is all well and good,' she thought, 'but home is infinitely better.' Although she had found from her past that she often craved the exotic locales and new experiences of anywhere else in the world. Sometimes the road is the only thing that shows just want you want.
How can the pilots tell the difference between sky and ground? There's a level of blue, white which seems never to end, then nothing. If one only believed what one saw, then this moment, this suspended time of a plane exists and nothing else. The world doesn't exist except when each person is on it. It doesn't continue for you when you're gone, so it stops, so you are in fact the center of your own private universe.
But really life does continue- or so we find out from television and phone calls with our friends. Bad and good events continue to happen- life never stops. Time waits for no one and each moment is gone as soon as you begin to appreciate it. One day you'll look back and think- I should have cherished it more, but how can you cherish something and life for the moment? Impossible.
Cherish is a word for weddings, reflective moments and old age, if anything.
Life is so grand . Such an elusive idea. How do you write what it feels like to live? How can you write out the sensation of touch or smell? Impossible to a degree. A tingle will be interpreted differently by every person. A bubbly laughter would sound different to anyone's inner voice and thoughts. Every reader interprets with their own past thoughts and experiences behind their emotions. I would write out a scenario and each reader would take something different from it and my own actual message or view could be kept hidden. That fact makes it hard to imagine what authors like Faulkner and Fitzgerald were really thinking. What does it take for the mind to create a symphony, art work, or a story? And what makes certain people want--no, need to write or express their inner thoughts in such a manner. How is it that artists like Anna Nalik write things like, "2 AM and I'm still awake writing this song/ if I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside of me/ threatening the life it belongs to."
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