On a plane

(written in the air some time ago, not sure where i was going)

Clenched by polyester fabric and polite warnings all around me, expecting to fly, a flash of sun-drenched sky lights the narrow path that splits the plane in half. My fellow passengers are all within sight but all out of reach. Waiting to be catapaulted into a sea of clouds and fuzziness, I await release.

Flashing lights are carried through the crisscrossing veins of the city. A city that makes no noise when you’re flying miles above it. Only in the darkness everything sparkles and glistens. The further you are, the more it begins to look the same, as everything fades into itself. Shame that we live in these concrete wastelands that sprawl outwards, clawing their way into the horizon, or to the edge of the sea. They can be beautiful, but never as a whole. Communities should try and reflect their natural surroundings, instead of dominating them. If only we could give up this urgency to move great distances, always with the help of pavement.

(The plane points its nose towards the ground and there is some turbulence.)

The tip of the wing is slicing through the snowy sky (clouds, sprinkly whiteness and everything!) but we never move so fast that we cannot slow down.

Focusing my thoughts is proving to be more difficult than I anticipated. Describing observances is bothersome, since my life consists of pointing out absurdity in and around observations. We think of death when we're on a plane, don't we?

The plant in my apartment is slowly dying lonely. There was a time when I watered it diligently, about every two weeks because it was a desert plant that required little maintenance, and no grooming. But now the soil is nutrient-less. Its impending death is impeded by its stubborn refusal to give up. Ever so slowly, shrivelling up and drying out, leaves curled inwards empty of colour. Brittle bits snap off without even the help of a careless caress. "Losing its hair" I think to myself. Shrinking and recoiling into itself.. no longer eminating life, but never fully ending, its resilience gives me pause for thought.

Will my death be a grotesque spectacle for someone else? Maybe someone clutching my listless hand grinds their teeth as I take a pained last breath. I always dreamed of falling to my death, but from a great height, in order to take everything in.. but the ground would still rush up too quickly, near the end – this was the only problem. I've considered other possibilities.. maybe climbing the highest mountain and rolling off it. Drowning would be too poetic, a bullet too simple, an injection or pill too sterile. Maybe sex, or a voluntary o/d on a wide array of tranquilising drugs. Maybe it won't be up to me.. an embarassing accident that turns out my lights. I don't want to make a scene or disturb a silence when it's time.

I wonder if in the future they will find a way to make death efficient.