July 7, 2017: Quill
My seatbelt was fastened and, this time, my nausea under control. Something about the pressure of the cabin and the stale smell of the air blasting from the fans to mimic a natural environment usually makes my head spin and stomach churn. This time, I was spared. It doesn’t have much to do with any fear of flying. Quite the opposite, I love flying. It’s one of the greatest miracles of humanity, if you ask me. But what do I know, I’m a dreamer. But hey, I’m not the only one. Thanks, John Lennon. Anyway, I had a window seat this time on the row right above the airplane’s wings. I stared out the window, at the wings, for the whole flight (it’s only 45 minutes between Washington DC and New York). I started dreaming again, this time of a bird and its wings, how being suspended in the air, among the clouds — where most people think their dreams come from — is what they know better anyone or anything. Quills, not steel. Natural winds, not stale, nauseating cabin pressure. I wonder if they dream too, the birds. If so, they’re not the only ones.