I don't like airplanes. I find them cramped and unpleasant, and even though you're flying you still can't see the sky above you or the starts, except for those small squares cut out from the metal beside you.
On my way out of the city I was flying into the sunrise. The shuffle on my ipod, genius that it is, somehow managed to pick the right music for the ever-changing light. My sister was sleeping on my shoulder and the man beside us definitely thought we were a gay couple. But despite being cramped, judged and somehow trapped while flying, I was okay. More than okay. Good.
On my way back into the city I had an aisle seat, and what you could see from the windows was veiled in white anyway. I was cold, separated from my people, and my earphones were buzzing, so the tinny voice of Johnny Flynn was no comfort. The man beside me was watching football and he had a strange and fascinating wristwatch, and the woman on the other side of him ordered tomato juice.
The only redeeming quality was the wristwatch. And he seemed like a pretty nice guy. He asked my how it was going.
I think when I leave this city for good (or as close to it as I can get while people I like still live here) I'm leaving on a train. Trains just seem less hurried to me, more chill, and even though they're tied to the ground with iron you can still see a lot of the sky. And I would spend most to all of the time in the observation cart. Maybe I wouldn't even listen to music, just sit there accepting that the world rushes by. And maybe I would write. But if I'm leaving for good I'm not taking a notebook. I'll write in a book without lines so I can draw too, because hell, if I'm leaving, I'm going to make it worthwhile and go places that deserve to be sketched. Emphasis on the plural of places.
But that's still a while away.
And as for thankfulness, I'm thankful for my people. I'm thankful for the sunrise and the sunset and the stars, and I'm thankful for corduroy and Mumford and Sons.
And my cats
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