Lunar
now i know how joan of arc felt
1.
Oh, to be in Broadripple.
Not just a place but a time, the concept of it all. A place of cool fall breeze and orange leaves. Everything looks to have been drowned in sepia, a familiar feeling. A model plane influenced by that smooth breeze flies around a room, suspended by a wire. Oh, to be in Broadripple, to return to that place in time, just for a moment. To watch that airplane fly once more, the sunlight reflecting off the shiny silver shell and into unkindled eyes; Not that the spark wasn’t there, just that they hadn’t been burned.
I find it hard to watch movies now, not alone in the sanctity of my room but at a theater. I find it hard to go to the movies. My eyes are an unreliable source to me now, past the time of kindling and now ashen; nothing has felt the same. The sepia is gone, the breeze has blown out, and the plane has crashed. Not necessarily a bad thing. It is only reality, after all; Just attuned to it all now.
“Do you blame yourself?” Says Bailey, a sentiment I’ve long thought of. How should I feel blamed? I wasn’t the pilot. If a plane falls, is it up to the passengers to land it? Maybe it is selfish of the pilot. That’s a thought I’ve crossed as well; What of the passengers then? Is the pilot to blame? Or is it the airplane? A pilot was tasked to fly it, a broken and flawed machine predestined for destruction. I don’t think the blame should be a question after, not for that.
I watched two men die there, that place far away from Broadripple. One slow and evident if you cared enough to look, and one quickly and silently.