We took off. Once the small buildings beneath had dissipated, sparse as they were and quite unlike other capital cities, and once the strange town of Darwin was nothing but an orange speck, it was the clouds that took shape. First we saw them in tinges; more like trains of icy white mist than anything else, peeling past our great sardine tin as it whirled across the sky. Then we were above them, watching them billow below, great celestial beings forming a lilting sea of white.
I sat back in my seat and watched the world from the double paned window (plastic on my side, glass on the outer), and all the while the wing protruded sharply into my line of sight. The light danced around the bodies of cloud, changing its hue every minute with a flirtatious wink. First it was sky-blue, crisp and filled with promise. A little later, a wash of pink crept slyly over it, followed by bright oranges and purples, midnight shades; a mask of black.
Who was I in the sky, packed tightly against all these people? I decided I was no one. Just a stranger in my body, a soul removed from Earth. People millions of miles beneath were going on as usual; slipping tired bodies into thinning pyjamas, cooking dinner, having sex. The nightly rituals. I knew that this felt like no other flight – without distraction I waited and watched as life below, in all its sadness, was revealed to me. I wasn't sure where I wanted to go that night, but it wasn't back down. I needed more time in this half-way space.
There were grids of light on the descent, tiny pricks in every colour. Thousands of them stretched out to the end of the horizon. The weird, newly-birthed continent below prepared itself for us. It was draped in some dazzling sheen, and Sydney twirled about, flashing its harbour like a twinkling Rolex.
The cabin crew prepared for landing. White lines drew themselves across tar roads. Small cars indicated and turned left. The runway was smooth when we hit it and I closed my eyes as the wheels rolled on. Before we had landed, I was preparing to leave.
I sat back in my seat and watched the world from the double paned window (plastic on my side, glass on the outer), and all the while the wing protruded sharply into my line of sight. The light danced around the bodies of cloud, changing its hue every minute with a flirtatious wink. First it was sky-blue, crisp and filled with promise. A little later, a wash of pink crept slyly over it, followed by bright oranges and purples, midnight shades; a mask of black.
Who was I in the sky, packed tightly against all these people? I decided I was no one. Just a stranger in my body, a soul removed from Earth. People millions of miles beneath were going on as usual; slipping tired bodies into thinning pyjamas, cooking dinner, having sex. The nightly rituals. I knew that this felt like no other flight – without distraction I waited and watched as life below, in all its sadness, was revealed to me. I wasn't sure where I wanted to go that night, but it wasn't back down. I needed more time in this half-way space.
There were grids of light on the descent, tiny pricks in every colour. Thousands of them stretched out to the end of the horizon. The weird, newly-birthed continent below prepared itself for us. It was draped in some dazzling sheen, and Sydney twirled about, flashing its harbour like a twinkling Rolex.
The cabin crew prepared for landing. White lines drew themselves across tar roads. Small cars indicated and turned left. The runway was smooth when we hit it and I closed my eyes as the wheels rolled on. Before we had landed, I was preparing to leave.
