Intersecting brown and corn.
A sea of rolling white and blue with puddles of green peeking through.
Ripples of grey squirming in between straight black lines.
Nothing makes me think of death quite like flying. Every time I find myself in an airplane, rumbling down the runway, I think, "How the hell does this thing fly?" It's against everything that should be true. It defies the laws of physics that are probably incorrectly stuffed in the recesses of my mind.
Once, four years ago, as I sat on a plane which was flying over the Atlantic on my way to Belgium, I turned on my iPod. The first lyrics I heard?
And if your plane fell out of the sky/ who would you call with your last goodbye.
In an ironic twist of "this is really not funny," it's stuck in my mind and I think of it each time I fly. Not because I am frightened, but because mortality is real.
As I write this, I'm tossing about in a bit of turbulence, because why not? While the plane rocks back and forth, I know these are not my last moments, but also consider what I should be thinking about if they were. What is it like to know you are dying? What can one even do to prepare, other than remain in the state of grace?
"We have begun our descent."
A planned descent, clearly. In mere moments, I'll feel the wheels spin on the ground and wonder how we made it one more time.
But will I let another 6 months go by before I think about mortality again? Why is this an in-sky-only thought and not a daily one?
If today was your last day/ if tomorrow never came...
We really should be living as if each day were our last. But that's terrifying.
Because what would I *have* to do differently if I lived like that?