I’m floating above the world in an open basket. The sun is staring back, bright eyed, and a chunky layer of fog guides us along the way.
Around us other balloons float up and down, weaving a unique colour-coordinated symphony in the bright blue sky. It’s the whoosh of burning propane and the crackling radio (traffic control) that keeps me grounded, reminds me that this is real, keeps me from floating away on an escapist fantasy.
Quietly, steadily, we climb up, up, up. I stand on my tip toes and look down; squares of fields, zigzagging crop lines, crooked rooftops, fairy chimneys, open nests, they all grow smaller, and strangely more magnificent. Looking down, shadows grow lighter and crevasses open up. I see shapes, layers and personalities that were invisible before, hidden in the mundane and routine. I see beauty where I saw boredom before. I see what the birds see.
I should be scared of the drop, instead I feel a soothing calm take over. I feel a wave of inspiration, hope. Everything, even thought the same, is so very different. It’s a matter of perspective, I guess.