I miss the long haul flights that cross continents. Time is kind of loopy and you’re way way above, grazing stuff that’s in the imagination only. You’re slightly sleepy - no phone calls, no emails, no movement towards anything because most things are set or are outside of your control. You’re direction is set, your destination is decided — you’re in transit.
Then you look out the window and remember the majesty of your condition - how lucky you are to be alive and in the world, moving across continents and time zones and millions of lives below, oblivious to you, the tiny speck peering down.
The clouds transfix you, their forms so tempestuous compared to the climate controlled metal tube that encloses you. They are not bound by any set direction. They go where the wind blows.