From above, far above I mean, the West looks broken and chapped and dry, the sun a bright spot as if God’s thumb had wiped away the dirt in that one circular space. The land stretched over hills that gave way to mountains and the occasional river lit from above, you could pretend for a moment you had escaped the sheer verticality of gravity and soared worry free above it all. Stuck in the canyons, we could all see a faint spot of green and people living down there (here) and we all wondered how does a person (people)fall into such a place? Such a space.
What do they do? How do they solve the difficult question of loneliness? Of Snicker Bars that haven’t dried and hardened. What songs do these people sing to themselves or what TV shows do they watch as the days finally let go, strange signals picked up from a long time ago if any of us had to guess. So far away from anything and from nothing.
The plane took a hit just then, almost spilling the only thing I ever drank while flying, a ginger ale that bubbled more alive now that the air beneath us had given away for a moment. I took a sip so it wouldn’t go anywhere. So much different than when we were kids. When we flew then, often for the first time, the clouds struck out in every direction and we built castles in them, or cloud people, or dragons of whiteness that fought each other, faded into each other, returned back to themselves and disappeared. The fantasies.
Now only the hardness of the west and the brownness. It was a wonder anyone ever made it across such a beast, Lewis and Clark, native Americans, beaten slaves, as if it was nothing.
That word again. Nothing.
1 Day Writing Streak