river

I traveled by air frequently at one point. And every time I get the window seat, I still feel like a child—mesmerized by cotton candy clouds and abundant skies. I cannot tell when the sea ends and the sky starts; there is only water, and I float through a bright blue infinity. The people on the flight have their own lives, but I see a momentary heaven, a glimpse of glory when I see the light.

I flew over Thiruvananthapuram on a rainy day, and I cannot begin to explain the affection I have toward this little city. I want to capture it in more than cloudy photos, so I open my book and I recall and I try to capture—

I think of the way the river twists and turns, and I think of the music through my earphones, reaching my brain through waves. The world exists in patterns, in lines and strings and circles, and all that is left is for us to find where it starts and ends. Every study we do is to unwind, but what we must know is that they do not exist as straight lines.

I look at the sky and the sun, the clouds we swim through, and I think of power. I think of potential untouched, a divinity beyond my reach. I think of possibility in a realm where I am so insignificant. I could rewrite the stars, the sun bearing witness.

I've always thought hell to be underwater. Fascinating, that we think being condemned deeper within this earth is the greatest punishment we could receive while ascending to a plane higher than it seems freeing. The human's first instinct is flight—we run from our homes, our lives, our planet. Maybe that is why we destroy it so freely, because we always intended to leave.

And in a steel machine a thousand miles above the ground, I suddenly feel alive.