Flying

by Sam

(Written January 18, 2009)

36,970 feet in the air. I’m on another plane, another departure, and I can’t help but to wonder what I’m doing, what I’m supposed to be doing. Again.

I always see my life at the airport. Something about the pure independence triggers the sensation of loneliness; it is the manifestation of truly belonging to no one, of placing every fiber of your existence and the possibility of its continuance in the hands of a something beyond yourself. Everyone is going somewhere. Where? Why? We don’t know. Meanwhile, I am stuck here just waiting, waiting, suspended between one life and another, with nothing to do but… wait.

The suddenly, there’s the rush and the roar and life is fast forwarded. Speeding, speeding, will I ever return again? What’s waiting for me when I arrive? Will it ever be the same ? There’s the window Bonnie pressed her face to – was that really five months ago? Everything was so different then; it’s incredible that so much can change in a mere second.

I was anxious then, and I am anxious now, though I no longer show it. Flying has a way of doing that to a person, but not because one is afraid of the actual flight. It’s much deeper; it’s the fear of life and its journeys passing before our eyes, the realization that nothing is certain. The journey is not in our hands, after all; we do not know what lies before us.

And now, I’m suspended over the sea, thinking. The city lights have long disappeared from view. Boston, my beautiful home, is miles away and, with it, everyone I love.

 And now a new destination calls. For now, though, I belong to nowhere.

Advertisements