You hate forgetting things. You hate the idea that this is the last time you will see the sun set on an old, brow, graffitied European town as your train begins to take you “home”.
And thats when you truly understand how the beauty here is different.
Nothing is pristine, nothing is palm-treed or pastelled or cookie-cut.This beauty is like the beauty of a messy house; it shows life. It shows homes and hangouts and places where teenagers and artists scrawl pieces of themselves onto brick. Somehow, its beauty shows a respect for nature and a beautiful equilibrium between nature and the urban creation of humans. You think of how there’s no way the landscape could be any more beautiful than it is at this moment. You like the way the sun flickers orange-yellow as you train speeds past trees. You love the silhouettes of countryside houses and small town apartments, mixed in with rolling hills and bridges and trains going the opposite way.
Next you think about the beauty of flying, and the strange reality that men have learned to fly like birds and kites. It seems so silly and amazing to you.
You like flying on cloudy days the best. You like looking out the window and seeing the blanket of clouds below you when the plane is at its highest point, but on this particular day you enjoy the descent the most. There are mostly grey, rainy clouds in the sky, but your plane is soaked in sunshine flying above them. You like it when the plane seems to hover above the first blankety layer of cloud, because it looks like every picture of heaven that you’ve ever seen. You love that. You love the moments of silent, grey turbulence as you break through the layer, but you especially love it when the grey is gone and you can see the world below you.
The countryside is a brown and green quilt, stitched with fences and dirt roads, and embroidered with houses, barns, and wind turbines. You love that. You love the birds eye view of everything, you feel like you’re looking in on life as you fly over the miniature buildings. You like the idea that there are a thousand lives being lived below you. There are a thousand people that don’t know you exist, and a thousand people with their own worlds that revolve around them. Your favourite part is still the clouds. They are becoming patchy, and from the top they look so different. When you look at clouds from the ground they look like simple pieces of sky, like Bob Ross just painted them happy and little into the blue expanse, or dark like a curtain in front of the sun. But you realize that when you yourself are a part of the sky, the clouds suddenly look different. They become their own units and show new dimensions. They look like levitating cotton balls, and you like that you can see the shadows they cast over the land.
The gold of the sun above you, the blue of the sky around you, the grey of the clouds, the green of the life, the red of the roofs.
mylifeisweirdrightnow 