Moon Gliding

As i write this, we are thousands of feet above the ground. I watch Germany from above, she sleeps quietly under a bed of clouds. With the lights dipped I am squeezing my eyes and fists, trying to take in every tiny detail of the sky. The German air is warm and still as we rise above the layer of clouds, and I silently pray we will see the stars. I am reminded of the poster I plucked courage to ask for in sixth form (some British Airways Christmas ad of the plane pushing through the star-speckled night) - I didn't do anything with it, I was just infatuated. 

I am thinking about how I could stare at this all night. How the sky hits the tops of the clouds at the lightest indigo and is swallowed up by the blackness above. Funny how I've been terrified of the night since a child, but feel my heart bursting for that same raven expanse. I really do think now more than ever than van gough was right; 'I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.'

It's light ahead and I wonder if that's morning. Or evening. Or just an illusion. The perception of time keeping is a funny thing, that somewhere now someone's best-ever new day is starting and for someone else, a terrible one ends. All at the same time, darkness and light. Maybe that's the beauty time keeping. That moments are not ever-lasting but finite: They say that it is both a blessing and a curse that each day ends, no? 

So much thinking, and all I can think now is how I wish they would turn the cabin lights off. The darkness breeds a kind of solitude of togetherness that I have loved since school disco's, sleepovers and being at the cinema. A new world of senses when the light is shut off. 

There is a dark crimson sheet beneath the sea of blue, like the lava in all my apocalyptic dreams and I wonder how bright the lights in that city must be to escape the clouds. More and more appear, but the clouds shift and my eye sight is awful and, they're gone. As though they never existed at all. 


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