aerophobia at 20,000 feet.

We are chasing the sun.
By logic, it should be getting darker. Chronological minds are saying that the sky should be deep navy, almost black. But there’s a sunset in the distance, and it refuses to fade away.

An aeroplane is nothing more than a metal tube.
The very idea of flying is absurd. Drive fast; accelerate over land, fly through air.
Absurd. It is absurd.

We should be falling, falling down down down through the air. But our retaliation against gravity persists, our arrogant answer to Earth’s forces screaming its points through the clouds.

It shouldn’t work.

It shouldn’t work, but it does. We are flying. Sailing. Gliding.

And it makes no sense.

But it works. It happens.

Holidays always bring people together, or drag people apart. You either learn someone a bit better, or you forget their tiny details, their smile, the subtle things that make them them.

A lot can happen in a few days, and a lot does happen.

The cliché rings true. Somehow, the tired and twisted words fall into a logical and sensible order.
The next few days will be slipping out of jetlagged tiredness, waiting for our bodies and brains to adjust to hollowed out timezones, admit to being messed around with, accepting their mistakes.

We’ll struggle to find sense for the next few days, but it will come eventually.
It could take a time, getting stuck in the congestion of Home for a while too long, but it will come.

It always comes.

We land.