I'd chosen to keep the windows closed. Today I would be reading, and the bright light from our clear, perpetually blue skies, was not going to distract me. I strapped myself in, and wondered if the man sitting beside me realized how far his elbow had protruded into my personal space. I giggled as an exceptionally flustered attendant begged people to conserve space. However, my interest was a half hearted attempt to feign the pleasant nature I desired to actually feel. This event made me edgy and exhilarated, which was unnerving.
I flipped the book to page 1, or 6 actually, but regardless it was where the story began. As it drew me in I began to calm and fall into a world where I could exist without the asphyxiating apprehension and incessant jostling that resulted from our quick movements over cracked pavement. Then, I, along with 149 other people titled backward and thus began our ascent. The pressure built, and things became quiet, peaceful and still. Thoughts flitted away from my mind and any hope of concentrating on the reading, that had recently been absolutely important, was lost. I set the book down, raised the shade slightly and leaned my forehead against the plastic pane. The city below was rushing away from me and I was racing out over the endless water. It glistened, and I searched in earnest for some sign of life. I received none, and lowering the shade returned to my book.
The trip continued steadily enough. Only a couple times did my stomach lurch and cause me to question whether it was possible for us to simply drop, like a brick if it were tossed out a window. As the day progressed traces of its changing colors peaked through the sliver of pane not covered by my shade. I succumbed, and raising the shade was drawn this time into the arid peaks and valleys among sand, and rocky plateaus. A desert ocean, secretly teeming with as much life, but hidden from my view set miles above. I wondered if perhaps this place was as deserted as it appeared. If perhaps the few miles between us made me and 149 other people the nearest evidence of human existence.
And so it continued. I drifted back and forth between the growing suspense of a fantastical novel and the wonderment of my fantastical viewpoint.
As the afternoon edged toward night, the sky reflected this change. I found myself appreciative for the subtle magnificence of a process that reoccurs daily. From this perspective I discovered that the horizon, generally delineated by the silhouette of earth against rich tones of sky, was lost in a sea of shadows. I could not determine where the earth ended, and the sky began. A deep red had blended into both, and earth extended into the sky as a desert brimming with blood red lakes which streamed alongside gigantic dunes.
Meanwhile the dark moved stealthily from east to west, stretching like long fingers into the vermillions, ambers and emeralds. I'd never before realized that the dark moved horizontally across the sky. It had always seemed to descend upon earth from above. I watched this slow, but steady process and the prospect of my side of the planet being blanketed in night caused me to itch with anticipation. I was flying east into the night as it crept westward and I noticed that the part of earth already covered with darkness had become one. There was no horizon or sky or ground. Life below had yet to even light small beacons that would announce itself to the darkness. I yearned to join the night.
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I love flying in planes. I have to devote a great deal to trust, and allow the fears to wash over me before releasing them. From the perspective of a plane the earth manages to impress it's absolute significance. If you get further away, and see earth through the pane of a space shuttle it presents a paradox. Earth appears precious, and yet wholly insignificant against the expanse of the universe. But from my perspective, just a few short miles from the ground, earth is invaluable.
