manchester_black

The press against my chest, the brisk stroll to screaming dash in the span of a breath. I can feel the rumble beneath my feet, like some biblical dragon exhaling. The blinking of the airstrip lights, like some sort of titanic pinball machine disappear, then blink back in, fading out softly with each pulse as we come off the tarmac, flying into the mists, everything but the flicker of the wingtip disappearing, its glow like a manmade will'o'wisp. Breaking through the clouds, we leave them beneath us like a moonlit lake, their soft waves looking wistful and sad - (perhaps only a reflection of their observer) even though my rational brain knows they have no tangible substance, my shadow self wants to leap from the plane and swim these waves. To bear witness to a lightningstorm from above, and to see the passive lights of streets far below through cracks in the clouds, like veins of magma, the sight looking like a clash between elemental shaman gods thought long dead and forgotten, and me, a speck inside a missle with artificial air and in-flight movies.