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I took a flight and then another and then another. I saw something of people and found something of me and the other. The other me. The reflection of myself in other passengers. On a plane to destination unknown. Floating on a pale clouds of air.

I hate writing about myself since I tend to think people don’t want to hear about me; they want to hear about there. The “there” at the point of my being there and the people that were around me. I think that’s more interesting but I was always there. So for sometime, I’ve been avoiding writing or writing about something that I felt wouldn’t concern you or drafting a manifesto, a lie, a riddle, something coded in the sky.

It’s sometimes difficult to calculate distance when you have been so far from yourself, from a former self, from several versions of who you tended to be then and there. But then you take a step back and you realize you’ve traveled in mere moments, minor millimeters. The distance between the here and the now and the other who was there. It’s hard to calculate and impossible to count the steps that have passed.

But suddenly you are alone. Now you are you here. You just realized. At the thirty-five thousand feet up. Starting back with the door open at the pale drifting clouds and a platoon of paratroopers, drifting parachutists. They’re going down in a wonderful color of floating angels and swaying shadows and devils. They are there and you are here. Your selves floating to Earth. And you are last passenger on board.

Let’s get back to the trajectory of a self. Only in transit until we hit the ground. The last jumper grabbed the last floatable.