I Always Wanted To Fly
I always wanted to fly. Actually, more than anything, I think I always wanted to fly so I could be removed from the here and now.
My nose is cold against the tiny window of this plane. But if I get close enough, I can shut out the plastic seats, the bright lights, the coughing people, the warning signs. All I can see is the fiery orange of a setting sun carried out across the horizon by wispy clouds, resting atop canvas streaks of cerulean and jade.
I float over snow-crested mountain tops – peaks in a sugar bowl. There are no people here. No barriers here. I entertain the thought of being separate. Separate from this body, pulled down, down, down by gravity.
It’s peaceful here.
Only moments pass before I glide down, down, down. My eyes scour the sky and ground for someone to share this weightlessness with. Someone to … connect.
And so I think maybe, maybe I don’t want to be removed from the here and now after all. Maybe all I really want is to be present. Present. I try this thought on like someone else’s old leather jacket. It’s unfamiliar but smooth and pleasant in its creases; comforting in its heaviness. I want to be Present.
In that pause at the top of my breath, a thought hangs like dust suspended in the air:
I am Present.