Say you'll remember

I went to Michigan this past weekend. I was so happy to go, and so unhappy to leave. So unhappy.

I'm an oddly nervous flyer. Once I get on a plane, I'm resigned to my fate, and I calm down enormously. But before I take my clinically comfortable assigned seat, my head pulls a major fucking freak out on me. I imagine my fiery demise, and it's horrifying. I didn't do that on Sunday.

I generally write when I'm flying. I don't try and write anything good, I just write what I'm thinking. Sometimes it's good, other times it's just writing.

Here's what I wrote on my way home:

In a place that seems built on the premise of excited hello's and achingly sad goodbye's, I found myself alone while I walked through the Detroit Airport with tears falling too fast to hold back. What an odd thing, to be the only person crying openly in an airport. I wonder if this makes me more cowardly than my fellow travelers. Maybe I'm the bravest mother fucker here. Perhaps I'm the bravest person anywhere.

My flight only has about a half an hour left. I've taken a few photos of the outside of my window. Nothing spectacular, just photos. I'm trying to take pictures to keep my mind off of how sad I am. It's not working. The land below me is strange and unfamiliar. I am strange and unfamiliar.

There's a windfarm down below me, and I'm playing connect the dots in their erratic pattern. I don't know what the dots are supposed to be. I think I did it incorrectly.

There are huge, dry piece of land beneath me now. It looks like the moon. From here, everything is empty and perfect and far away. I'm almost anomalous, so far above everyone else. I remember that I'm on a full flight, so there are other people, as well. I don't think they care about any of this like I do right now. So I AM anomalous up here. The rivers make fractals in the land that looks like the moon; they twist through the ground below me, and they are all new and fascinating. For these last few glorious moments, they all belong to me.

The veil between me and the stratosphere is becoming less obvious. We're descending into Denver now, and I can see the mountains. It doesn't appear as though we've missed each other, but I'm glad to see them just the same. I'm pleased that they're here to welcome me back.

My heart feels sick and sad and lonely.

I can see cars again. Cars and buildings and miniature lives happening below me. I've been crying for hours above them all, and there's an odd satisfaction in knowing that my sad, sad face is hidden and unreachable to them.

The wheels have dropped. I'll be landing in moments.

I've cried the entire flight. I'm begging the plane to keep my tears. I don't want them. The plane doesn't, either.

So now, I prepare myself again to enter a place built on hello's and goodbye's, all of them surrounding me while I walk through them and cry. I'll be the bravest coward here, too.