…ace.of.stars…

gravity glues my crown to the grass, gaze fixed upward – or so it appears to me.  gravity is funny that way. making one feel upright when the right side fully depends on where one is. after all, we are the center of our own perceived universes.  poor chumps on the other side of the planet don’t even know they’re upside down.  ah well – so goes life.  depth perception was trumped hours ago by the ace of stars. ace of stars? i suppose your universe forgot to tell you life gambled with different suites – no wonder you’re losing.  the occasional blinking jumbo jet catapults me back into orientation, but only for a moment. in that moment, i can squint and measure the bird with my pinky nail.  nose to tail, i figure roughly  a dozen could fit across the length of my hand – five down the width.  hmmmm, 60 jet planes in my palm – multiplied by, what, 400 passengers at the least?  not including kiddies and crew.  in the palm of my soil rooted, calloused hand rest 24,000 hypothetical souls.  minimum.  some are new to the phenomenon of flight – others were practically born with silky down.  a portion are fast asleep, a fraction lost in their literary vice of choice and most likely a half searching expectantly for the beverage cart .  some are existing in silence, while others attempt the obligatory awkward pleasantry with the flesh cloaked encroachment on their personal bubble.  some erroneously immortal in their adolescent ideology alongside others forced by doctors visits and lab results to face impending mortality.  will they embrace it? will they succumb to crippling defeat? this one sits intertwined, caressing a body cherished above his own.  some are existing leagues elsewhere with loves waiting, loves lost, loves waiting only  to be lost. there are those squirming in delightful anticipation of the journey ahead and those churning with dreadful anxiety.  some newly born.  some long since dead.  

 .I have been all of these souls. 

neatly packaged in your  hypothetical metal carton, quarantined thousands of miles above, i am more compassionate and gracious in my reaction to you in seat 21F.  i am quicker to admit you are hurting, more ready to note there is pain and tragedy in your universe affecting your responses to what the day presents you.  this is mostly due to the fact that, while you are miles above, it is impossible for you to ding my new car with your door inconsiderately swung amuck or cut me off in obnoxiously long checkout lines. you aren’t an inconvenience to me. position you laterally, a few blocks down, and suddenly you’re relevant.  suddenly i actually have to formulate a response to you. i can profess to care that you don’t have the cash for lunch or know where next months rent is coming from, because i have set my credit card to an automatic charitable contribution once a month and re budgeted so i no longer even feel its absence.  i have left the flight crew to stare into your hollowed eyes and the ipod in your head as companionship.  i judge you for spending a small country’s worth on new toys after tuning out your blatantly frantic search for fulfillment. you’ve resorted to self medication, self preservation, realized metal and lace wont reject you.

 .i have, once again, rejected you for it.

~ by iseethemoon on April 6, 2009.