travelogue

You've got eight hours to find yourself again, compose yourself, re-apply eyeliner over and over again as the cabin shakes and leg muscles harden from disuse. You really have to re-evaluate yourself when your that far from sea-level. You're staring at the face in the plane bathroom mirror trying to imagine how the hell you fit here, how you fit anywhere, how context ever managed to wrap itself around you in the first place, how everything comes apart and then back together again, and you blame it on time-differences, on the strange avian laws you have to follow now, here, forever. You realize, devastatingly, somewhere between Finland and Norway, that you were the one responsible for making the snowglobe you've been sinking in, and you are not the master craftsman you once thought, because there are tiny cracks now along the outside of you, the pressurized cabin getting heavier, wetter, and you really should have trusted your judgement in the beginning when you wanted more glitter. You've got eight hours to gather yourself, find all the artefacts you brought that will give you comfort, arrange them around your aisle seat like a temple or a funeral pyre, and hope that the one you love will find you, light the first candle.

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(k)