There is the earth, there is the sky, there are clouds, there is more sky and somewhere in between, there is me, gliding above it all in a metal pipe.
Not graceful, more like a large tube of human smarties looking for some great and accommodating mouth to be emptied into. Below, the clouds rise and fall, creating great peaks and valleys like an upturned blanket. At times you can see through the holes and there, tens of thousands of kilometers below is what i can only assume is the ground whose embrace i just left.
It looks like a play-set, a toy for the Gods and for a moment, while hidden above its surface, I feel beyond the machinations and petty quibbles of deities. Of course, in writing that, i instantly worry that some great ear will hear my conceit and will use its great hand to swat me from the sky. The slightest of turbulence and i feel undone.
Yet not alone am i in my skyward pilgrimage. Stand tall my fellow expeditionary’s, those who choose to be seated elbow to elbow, instructed on what can reasonably be accomplished with a life jacket when the grim visage of death is in your face and the proper etiquette when being flung to the heavens with nothing but a high pitched squeal to comfort you.
Be sure your seat is in the upright position when you contemplate the worth of your wife and all those people you should have fucked and all those you probably shouldn’t have. Excess emotional baggage should be stored in the overhead compartment.
For vultures circle these great metal bids sometimes, brave traveler. They don’t look kindly on this type of trespass into their territory, but they do thank you for providing variety in their otherwise ordinary diet.
The sky is the world turned upside down, the clouds are the surf and we are underwater, without air, without fins and victim to its currents.
We are sharks and sea bass and turtles and sardines. We are pedestrians in a forgotten expanse of ocean and we wish ourselves to be dolphins but we’re plastic; we’re a washing machine in the tide. We don’t belong.
Our ideas are too small for such domains and though our ambition may match their own at times, we’re shown for the hollow dreamers we are next to such magnitude.
For we will never realise that beauty is in and of itself devoid of outside influence and can never be created or appropriated.
It simply is.
Like the sky we defile with our presence so that we might make it more human.