The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn’t it be? — it’s the same air the angels breathe.
Flying is something special to me. It rushes through my veins to firmly grip my heart and holds steadfast. Nothing in the world can make me feel the way the sound of a jet engine can. I can never be as free as when I am soaring through the clouds. No sunset or sunrise that can ever be as beautiful as one seen at 35,000 feet.
I am a vagabond.
I am a dreamer.
Ever since I can remember, I stared up at the sky yearning for that graceful twinkle of metal trailed by clouds. To me it meant adventure, excitement, fear and uncertainty, things I can somehow, take comfort in. The people on that plane were going somewhere I had never been. I didn’t care where or when it was, I just knew that it pulled on something deep inside me, calling me, driving me.
I loved atlases as a child. I can recall some of the pictures in them and how often I dreamed of seeing these marvels. The Colosseum in Rome. Tibet. The sakura blossoms in Japan. Big Ben. Castles in Austria. The Taj Mahal. I would have gone anywhere. I knew there were greater things for me out there, wherever that was, and somehow, some way, I was going to find them.
To this day even, each time I see an airplane, it still speaks to that inner part of me. That secret place in my heart I guard from everything else in the world. It speaks to who I am. It calls me, pulls me even, to all that adventure I just knew existed out there, when I was a little girl. It ignites that childhood wonder and amazement and makes my heart soar to the lofty heavens where it belongs.
I’m a star-crossed wanderer always with her eyes