I don't understand how people are afraid of planes.

They are hulking, massive, and metal on the ground... this is true. But still, I sit in wide-eyed anticipation, waiting for anything and everything.

The air knows things; understands them better than humans do. It has power, just the same as fire or water or earth. It vibrates and hums around me; the plane; the passengers... but they do not realize. Some are already asleep in their seats.

I look around to see if anyone minds, before pressing my face to the tiny window. No one seems to care, and that makes me sad. It also makes me glad that I do not have to share.

My bags are put away... I will not need them. I know that the sky will keep me focused. It would be that way for any length of trip. All I would do is stare out the window.

The captain's voice dings from the box in the front of the plane. It says something obscure; the only thing I care about is that this means we will take off soon. Soon...

And suddenly we are off. We coast and we taxi and we wander around the asphalt until -

Until something beautiful happens. My breath catches in my throat. I have imagined this moment a thousand times over and the thought is always the same. Freedom. Sky. Sun.

But the real thing is infinitely better, and as the once-bulky, once-clumsy airplane settles into the sky, it transforms into a shining thing that was never meant to leave the air at all.

When we go up, my soul floats up as well, in a sublime mixture of ecstasy and euphoria, joy in its highest form.

Amid this delicate happiness, I find it hard not to put all my trust in the machine.

The clouds swathe the sky in gauze... it is not cloying, not closing in on my vision. It merely adds to the beauty all around.

This is, of course, to say nothing of the ground... It simply cannot be described. The waters sparkle and the roads look like intricate spiderwebs, and everything is perfect. My heart is filled with love for this perfect world.

I watch for minutes; hours; years... and suddenly I pause. Look up. The sky is on fire. Ablaze. Someone greater than I has taken everything soft and warm, and colored the sky with it, and I can see every color in the world.

Light runs through the crevices in the clouds, and the sun is a Saharan flame. Hyacinthus' discus, suspended in midair.

I choke, then. This alarms the people next to me, but when they see that my face still clogs the window, they look away. But they are not what matters.

All that matters is the sunset... It is so dazzling that I start to cry, a little bit. And I remain like that; now I am always crying inside, but I am not sad.