For a person with such a fear of flying - so much so that I cannot unravel it from my sense of self (should such a simplistic notion exist) - I crave the weightless feeling of 35,000 ft. Suspended somewhere, anywhere, and nowhere all at once, I have no choice but to relinquish myself to the vulnerability and bask in endless possibilities of transformation - watching passively as miles upon miles of crops, of substance, pass beneath me - the delicately laid shapes of natural life diminished by the consequence of inferiority.
Transversing the land below at nearly 500 miles per hours grounds me in the present. I acknowledge the fleeting constants beneath me. I am everyone and no one, settled nowhere but rooted here. Below me, my choices are limiting, my life exists and demands for things I cannot give. It yearns for skinny and perfect and falling in love and then, maybe, falling in connection.