I love it best when I’m on the aeroplane alone. In six hours, they say, in six hours, we’ll arrive at our destination. I slouch, sink deep into my seat, and tumble right into the liminal niche carved perfectly just for me. I am in the in-between. Within a comforting void. Neither here nor there. Neither lost nor found. I buy time and crush time with my head literally in the clouds. I am grey. I close my eyes, eyelashes flickering. I feel the shadows of strangers lightly brush over my body, lick the ends of my hair, and pass me by. No one can touch me. No one can reach me. I hear the constant humming, the mild drumming, the conspiratorial whispers, the cracking and groaning of weary joints, the occasional sharp cackle that pierces through the air, and the shuffling of feet. I let out a sigh. I blow it into an invisible balloon, let it bounce and drift and float back to me, let it bring with it the echo of other furtive sighs, that "Finally, finally..." Such relief. Such release. I watch the bubbles of thoughts and dreams- terrible, beautiful things- swim above me frantically and crack and drip over my fringe, like the yellow yolk of an egg, and blindfold my eyes.
It seems that every time I land, and plant my feet on the ground, the irresistible urge rises to run away again.