Weightless |
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Those who are good during life on Earth will, after death, become angels.
- The sun is far brighter here. Maybe it will get in their eyes and keep us safe. Below, far below, specks of steel among the stones. I jet above, encased in my own speck, encased in my music. Down there, I suppose, there is a mission to be performed. Lives to save. Lives to end. The leadership will enact its plan and stop the vicious hosts of the enemy. This other, vengeful host and I will play out the actions outlined for us. It strikes me, for a moment, as appropriate that all the force and violence we can assert has less real strength than a single human mind, working through logic warm with life and use. That is where our power and direction come from. But the world of plans and actions is then, not now. Now is the beauty of sunlight and cloudscape, the purity of absolute silence. The interminable briefings have mercifully paused; the flood of information and terror has stopped. High-quality headphones, my sole luxury, shield me from the roaring of the transport jet. I can imagine that this inner stillness is a match for the outer tranquility—the gentle rolling of the clouds, the soft whisper of sunbeams falling to the ground. This is art that cannot be captured by brush, pen, or even photographic film. If some camera in the cockpit records our journey, surely the footage will be disposed of. To those on the ground, it’s boring. Blue sky. Sun. Clouds. So much the same; so much useless video time. They don’t understand. They can’t understand, on the ground. Even I will forget. But for now I know; I live the artistry; I fly. From far above, the sun reflects off a thin layer of cloud far below. Closer to Earth, I reflect on the clouds. The shape of each appears at first to be solid, but is in reality fleeting and ephemeral, shifting slightly as I watch. They remind me, in a strange way, of… life. My life. Life works differently on different levels. Reality changes with observation. I am defined by the multitudes who observe me as well as by my own self-reflections. How do I appear from far off? Quiet, calm, unchanging, blank? Does closer observation yield chaos and turmoil, the free-fall whistling of wind and the cold uncertainty of vapor? During my childhood I would lie on a hill, pointing at faces and monsters that showed themselves to me in the clouds. The other children—when I was with other children, which was rare—would see different things. Observation changed with the observer. Shape changed with perspective. Do I wear a new form each time somebody looks at me? It must be so. That’s the only thing that makes sense. How do I look to my family? My friends? My enemies? How do I look to myself, when I look at myself? This period of pure external sensation makes me realize most strongly how little I know about myself. This period of pure internal cognition makes me realize most strongly how little I know about my Self. There’s something intrinsically correct about this place. Here, I feel at peace and at home. This is the sky. This is Heaven. Where we will go, some tell us, if we fall in combat. I’m sure the enemy’s leaders say the same to them. But I don’t think that we would fight, if we met here in the silent sunlight. I don’t think we would speak, even if we shared a language. We might fly for a time in meditative companionship. We might merely be gently aware of each other’s presence as we traced our separate paths across the sky. The ground is like this place, but in a dim and shadowy way, and the meetings there more violent. There, I was drifting and purposeless. I was lost. I met people; we traveled together or merely near to each other for a time, then parted ways. I think that happened again recently—I remember rain, train stations, the mountains, the fields… and the mists, so akin to these clouds—but that belongs to another time and place. The here-and-now is for contemplation. It strikes me as bizarrely ironic that here, I’m moving in a straight line. It’s not ironic that my thoughts would be straight. They’re naturally clear in this realm of abstraction. The path that my mind follows may seem random to some random observer, but to me it is the most pointed route traceable. Avoid the storms and downdrafts of doubt. Ride over the turbulence of confusion. That’s a straight line, straighter than geometry could tell. (I failed geometry. The teacher said that I wasn’t trying. I’m not sure I cared.) The irony is that this clarity, this straightness ultimately comes from down there. It comes from the world where I must fight with all other humans for thinking and breathing space. Without the complications of religion and politics and death, what would I be doing now? I wouldn’t be flying. I wouldn’t be thinking in freedom, my ears deafened by the silence of the sun, my eyes blinded by the brilliance of the clouds. I would be drifting away from my classmates and professor at school, or my coworkers and boss at some wage job. I would be failing. I forget the formulae for life. Mankind lives and dies by forgetting, especially the things that matter most. I know that I will forget all of this. The beautiful light, the streaming wind, the sheer freedom of flight. Even now, someone is giving me the thumbs-up, signaling the imminence of our return to the ground. Down there I’ll fight the enemy, and the hard landscape, and myself. I’ll find a piece of music on some database; a piece that almost brings back this happy feeling. I’ll have a friend download it and burn it onto a CD. I’ll listen to it endlessly, trying to recapture… the spirit of flight itself, I suppose. Trying to resolve, or at least ease, the human conflict within with a taste—just a taste—of Heaven. ‘Only when the clouds go to sleep can we be seen in the sky. We are fearful and isolated.’ - The bay door opens, and I fall to Earth. |
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Note: I have taken the liberty of translating and incorporating lyrics from Rammstein’s “Engel”; appearing in italics. | ||