Shānti Flying

Accents, much like requests, get lost in flight. Please understand he wants a beer, not a bill. You smile courteously, but deny him twice. Determined to procure and guzzle alcohol hours before the sun has climbed to the top of a cloudless sky, he makes a third attempt. I pass no judgement, at least not deliberately, for his addiction might pale in comparison to mine. One can leads to two and two will certainly give way to three, as you draw uninvolved conclusions, just remember that he may know that obstacle removing god personally. He, along with the rest, sit upright as you spray the cabin, citing regulations drafted by international bodies. Your announcement of the imminent arrival at our destination is worthy of a celebration. If I ask politely will you overlook my vague intentions and place a shiny glass containing any substance viler than beer on my tray? Reasons evolve in three, but I can manufacture more if need be. Can we discuss how the unfortunate odours of perspiring souls combined with your toxic fumes are unpleasantly tickling my nostrils? Their traditional wrinkles reveal an uneasiness that in quiet diligence I seek to discern. Perhaps not everyone who flies wants to land. Thus, gravity has never been an enemy and despite our heights we can never be above it all.

With sight being the only unbiased sense in this environment, I see her. The colours and lightness of fabric accentuate the glistening deep of her skin. Hopefully my searching gaze doesn’t interfere with her duties. And if through no fault of our own, it does, may you show greater understanding than you possess by granting us the necessary time to dream. After all, she hasn’t paused since putting on your imperial apron, shouldn’t loyalty, the kind shown by her to you, be rewarded with tangibles? Not even his pungent belch of contentment, which vulgarly chocked whatever clean oxygen remained in the air, could halt thoughts and realize chimeras. To varying degrees, we, passengers at the mercy of aviation technology, find enduring comfort in myths. She’s asking for my empty cup. I’m longing for her gentle hand. You interrupt with an incomplete form. He amuses me with inebriated pitches for number four and five. They, anxious about their belongings, clutch everything in their field of vision. From an acceptable distance, her voice broke through the noise of the bustling cabin when she asked for my good name. Unsure of the customs, I’m wondering if inquiring about hers would be far too audacious. But, can my ears, and hearing, for that matter, even be trusted when descending from heavenly altitudes? Before you order her to sit as an employee, please accord us the longest second or the shortest day; what’s time in the divine anyway?

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