If I listen closely, there is a groan to the sound of the airplane as I sit here being propelled through the sky. I suppose that it is understandable - a groan, a deep rooted one, to do the impossible, to pull us through time and space, defy nature, and travel like the birds. Is there not anxiety in the science of it? Is there not shaky belief that we are actually doing it, we have actually arrived to this place where our feet rest and our bodies move across the land without weathering or tiring ourselves, maybe we will even be told a story. And, each time I endeavour into this tiny tin shell, right when it takes its first few wobbling steps off of the ground and into the air when you feel the teetering, when it still feels like it could go either way, I cling to the seat and I say to myself, "here we are, pretending that we are bigger than the hand we've been dealt, but we can't deny this nature state, the one where our bodies still need to beat against the earth and our hearts pressed close to the ones we love, and all at once we can't stop the wonder and wander of our dreams to be something else."