There’s something wonderful about life at thirty five thousand feet. Up here the only time the sky isn’t blue is when the sun dances on the horizon or when it’s under the blanket of nightfall, lit only by the moon and the glimmering lights of unimaginably far away stars. From my window seat I see cotton wool clouds that look as comfortable as the ruffled sheets of a bed in the morning. It’s all so perfect from up here where the music of Sigur Ros plays through my headphones providing the perfect soundtrack to this eleven hour scene of transit between Tokyo and London.
It’s easy to be philosophical at these heights, to breath in deeply and just take time to think as ‘normal life’ is seemingly put on hold for these few hours. This isn’t so much transit as it is stasis. Neither home, nor away, this is the space between those times where time itself is important, floating between what you have to do, what you want to do, and something that reaches far beyond that.
I recline my seat, sip on my bottle of water, and squint my eyes as I look up at the vast expanse of unbroken blue sky that disappears into space above me. Maybe we’re a little closer to heaven here? Maybe this is as close to God as it’s possible to get while our hearts still beat.
I’ve flown around the world, reached across the globe to far-flung places, and drawn lines made of vapour trains across familiar and unfamiliar maps. I’ve spent hours sat in window seats watching mile after mile of land and sea beneath me disappear into the distance, yet still the journey has never grown tiresome. It maybe cramped an uncomfortable and not that much fun at times, but really, if you just sit back and enjoy the fact that you’re neither here, nor there, then there really is something quite wonderful about life at thirty five thousand feet.
I’m a passenger today, but then again, aren’t we all?