last week i flew again! not metaphorically, but literally. not that i was a big flyer before it all, but there was always a kick to be found in those handful fiery seconds when the airplane’s engines fire up, the plane rushes on the runway and the two wheels holding it stitched to the earth finally lift and we are above.

the rush at that acute angle is perplexing but also so freeing. the kind of freedom that gives anxiety. it’s the kind of a liminal space that i’ve craved and missed these past ages. by standards of constructed time, only 19 months have passed by, but sometimes it feels to me as if two or three winters have gone by. amid this claustrophobia, taking a flight, however uncomfortable, was a welcome distraction.

for those few hours i could complain and crib about something other than being holed up at home. i could be free of the city where i was bound up and tied in. i could create my own city, up in the skies. i could be free, by extension, from my own self.