Even the oxygen felt like death. We were captives to window seats and air
conditioned aisles, to maddening tremors and bloodied stewardesses.
We didn’t die when the plane hit the windows. We died hours before, in the unsteady
knowledge of our death. And for many of
us, the greatest paradox was born in those hours: we lived for the first time. We aged and matured in the course of
minutes. We were the air sages, breathless
with the notion of eternity, of what a life of purpose might have been. We heralded the truth to ears that could not
listen.
And our lives felt like the towers that swallowed our
bodies: breakable, minute, falling, falling, falling into an abyss of possibility,
a return to ash.
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