Wednesday, October 26, 2005
In The Air
In the air, I wonder if love is who you think about during agitated turbulence, as the skies remind you that there but for the grace of tons of steel somehow defying gravity go you. I wonder if love is in the quiet moments afterwards, the serenity of a near-perfect quiet punctuated only by a persistent, engine-hum that vibrates into your seat, which, you remember hearing, may also function as a floatation device. I wonder because I have no idea. I wonder, because up here, there’s only wonder and wondering, because none of this--soaring on wings of hope and metal--should be possible. And in that, it seems just like love. Or so I’ve heard. These clouds up here look like every cliché ever assigned, but most of all like marshmallow fluff, sickeningly sweet and endlessly, irresistibly inviting. I look to them to re-effervesce my flattened optimism and enable me to believe that someday, there will be an end to this scenario, that it will not endlessly repeat forever the way it always has repeated until now and until now. Until then, I’m stuck within my circular circumstance, immobile in the unreciprocated and in awe of my infallible ability to misinterpret the words and cues of others is what is dooming me to loneliness. I’m trapped with no egress, like in a plane, a serf in a pilot’s kingdom, doomed to suffer the rest of the journey as a captive witness to the proceedings, bobbing on the wind and whim of weather, or deity, or captain, my captain.