What happens in the clear space between the cloud deck and the clear blue sky? When earthbound, it is so easy to forget, to realize that "it isn't this way everywhere". It isn't even "this way" directly overhead if you travel far enough.
How different would we feel if we perceived the clear space beyond the clouds? Would that immensity run away, drag us up taller, push out all our air? Would we inhale the simple high of more space and more light?
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Tree-covered mountain ranges, their valleys, their rivers, stretch out below. Golf course shapes appear where people have moved into the forest. As we quietly pass overhead, the rivers capture us like long wet mirrors. From this height, the great gap of a river between the green ridges looks like a line of missing puzzle pieces--the yet to be discovered; the place where the questions lie.
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Time stops. It seems nothing happens when in fact this is the fastest you'll ever go in your life. But you are floating, unattached. The recirculated air whirrs, a false breeze in a conjured environment. Sounds are soft and small. The only scent is that of metal, fuel, and air.
Then you arrive and the treadmill begins again. From the rush you boarded the calm. From the calm you are thrust back, refused a permanent sanctuary, required instead to re-articulate yourself into the din.
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