Tuesday, February 3, 2015

nine.eleven.


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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