Fly Me to the Moon.

In about 72 hours I'll be sitting on a plane on its way to Beijing.  I've always loved to fly.  And by flying, I mean the whole thing.  Arriving at the airport, checking your bags, finding your gate, the large chunks of time spent waiting, simply all of it, every exhilarating minute.  But it's the actual flight that I really look forward to.  The vibration of the plane as it rolls down the tarmac, the invisible force that pulls me back into my seat as those giant engines propel me into the atmosphere.

I feel a bizarre sense of serenity as I glide around the curvature of the earth, like a bird moving over the surface of a lake.  I think it's the sense of being detached from the earth.  Of existing within its orbit, but separate, removed somehow.  With it comes a lack of responsibility.  I no longer share a common goal or a mutual dream with any of the teeming millions below me.  My life is on hold.  My arrival is not certain; I can only assume the continuation of my life will happen at this journey's end.  But, it is that small awareness of not really knowing, which allows me to disconnect from that blue planet below me.

I exist, but on my own terms.  I stretch out across the vast horizon.  Part of me is warmed by the rising sun, another, frigid from the thin blackness that surrounds the earth.  The longing to be on solid ground stirs in me.  I remember my loved ones, the purpose of my trip, the work ahead of me-- my responsibilities creeping back.  But I push them aside, even if it is only for a matter of hours.  I want to remain weightless, circling the globe, my momentum spinning the earth, instead of the other way round.