I can see the shadows of clouds on the surface of the sea and the view from the window is top to bottom blue, scattered with wisps of white and the infinite haze that marks the horizon
From here the atmosphere is clearly paper thin, barely a whisper, a soft hug of gases that allow the hustle and bustle to continue below unchecked
It's all so fragile, impossibly delicate, perched on the edge of eternity, as far as we know alone and clinging to this solitary rock face, awash in the endless ocean
The wing tilts and the bottom drops out as we hit turbulence and I glance around at the rows of suits crammed into the early morning flight across the Channel
Everybody dressed in Sunday best, on the way to business on the continent, all committed to believing in this frail concept that keeps a roof over head and families fed
Maybe some are toiling towards the progression of the species, scraping hope from the unlikeliest of places, turning genius into usefulness, true pioneers in this age of knowledge
But I suspect that most like me are just here for the ride, holding on to any passing craft, working, watching, waiting
I try to create meaning in the smallest of things, two giant liners on the vast pond below appear tiny, apparently racing neck and neck but hardly moving from up here
Sunshine reflects from the pale blanket underneath and as we descend pulls me out of the daydream
Here it goes again, another day pretending, ties and handshakes on foreign shores but nothing new and nothing more
Food on the table and bills paid, I spend weekends exhausted, languishing on the sofa, completely uncertain what I was meant for
