up in the air

It’s so strange that my anxieties about flying have everything to do with falling. By that logic, I should fear the very idea of being high up in the air where the probability of a spontaneous descent increases.

Except one of the things I love about travel is the middle part—when you’re hovering above everything else, when you’re the closest to the sun and moon, and when falling becomes very real.

Ideas and dreams become frantic and desperate here, flitting from one good and fantastical thing to another. You defy nature by the very act of flying, and so it would stand to reason that all possibilities you’re capable of are attainable, effortless, and never-ending—so long as you’re here, in this in-between space, after you’ve left and before you arrive, and you think for a split second how nice it would be if you could just stay right here.

Everything is just so much more terrifyingly beautiful up here.