Small bag of salted and roasted peanuts, tiniest box of orange juice, old flight attendants, tea, lights sprawling across the earth, flooding it.
Tidiness of other shapes of lights compared to those of my country.
From up high, the formations of lights look like chaotic spiders, caught up in their webs. Not the webs of a sober spider, mind you…but those of drugged spiders. Ever seen those?
From above , you understand: All you need to be happy is to detach yourself. What better way of detaching than flight? Everything is so small. Underneath me, a million destinies are unfolding, and I am up high. Some are looking straight at me, wondering if the bombardier Q450 I am in is a spaceship, a moving star or just a plain old plane.
A woman is crying in her bed, rocking back and forth and I can’t see her. I only see the roof above her head, and it is the size of a fleck of dust now.
In 2 by 4 bedroom right underneath the left wing of the plane, a young couple is having bad sex, and he doesn’t know it, while she knows it too well.
Three snails are advancing rapidly towards a coveted leaf.
Some bits of the towns are under thick blankets of darkness. So pitch black that I think it must be some ocean in the middle of it all, hence the lack of light…but no, it’s just the lack of electricity, the scant need for illumination. Every now and then a car shines its headlights on a road that only then becomes visible, and then vanishes as soon as the wheels of the car pass it. You only exist when I shine my light on you. When I don’t look, you’re not even there.
The guessing game: is that triangel a …that rectangular thing…some sports field? is that a river, are those boats…and these slithering tiny specks of light…are these some huge vans?
I feel like I could crush them, from such (great) heights. Or blow them away as I’m blowing a kiss.
I have no actual images of my night flights. But I hope these ones will do.