xii. techne

The sight of two men casually chatting beneath the giant wings of an airplane looked comical.

—

Takeoff has always been the most exciting part. It’s the plane, gaining speed every second, roaring down the strip, nose pointed up. It’s the change in angle, the steady incline gradually steeping. For a second, when you see the end of the seemingly infinite tarmac, you wonder if the plane can even get in the air. Everything seems to counter it. It’s more than a hundred tons of metal, baggage, and people. How could it possibly defy gravity?

Then, a shudder. An infinitesimal moment passes where you feel the machine dip—the ground is long gone, the landing gear’s been folded. You’re flying.

Floating, gliding—higher, climbing ever higher. You glance out the window and find the capital city, in all it’s muggy heat and endless concrete, retreat. It continues to recede further and further, its once incomparable giants of buildings shrinking into toys as true titans of green rise from the skyline’s peripherals.