The plane was descending through the clear clouds. It was early morning, and as the countries beneath her begin to take shape, she was gripped with an ironic sense of longing and nostalgia.
She has done it a thousand times, since she was ten or earlier, she couldn't really remember. Taking off and touching down, packing and unpacking, sitting in the unmoving transit of arrivals and departures.
Her life is discontinuous tales of hellos and goodbyes, and she knows no other way of living. She never stays, she seeks inconstant.
No comments:
Post a Comment