Fragments. Arranged later into what grand fictions?
Gasps. Cries stifled. Aborted in the womb.
What is it in the act of travel that opens the floodgates? Joins the dots. I mean this not in some faux-conscious half stumbling bourgeoise dream, a simulcrum of understanding-through-travel, as in: “What did you do in your gap yaar Stuart?” “Me…? Oh I travelled. Found myself, you know.”
No. Rather travel in the Newtonian sense. A movement from A to B via C. A parabola. An arc of time.
And if, in mid flight, at 16,000 feet the great propeller outside my window had shed a blade, sent it whirling into the darkness, into the void beneath. If the plane had shuddered, sideslipped, lost altitude. Whiffled it’s way towards the inevitable ground. Would I have wept? Or cried out in wild, unbridled, oceanic glee?