WHEN I was a child, I’m fond of airplanes. Not airplanes as it is but airplanes in the sky.
Like any other child, seeing an airplane hovering above is magical –atleast that’s what I thought.
I want to see airplanes. Neither did I know, it gives me a different feeling. As a toddler, I’m longing to see airplanes so I waited and waited. Nighttime is much more beautiful. The blinking light that they made, the way it passes by up above the night sky like a shooting star..
is was magical.. Before long, I realized; airplanes made me sad.
Airplanes made me sad because it gives me hope –a hope that’ll be forever as it is. Those moments– whenever I see an airplane, I will stretch my hand and pointed it. Not yet satisfied with that action, I’ll proudly cry;
there’s an airplane!
as if being the first one to see the airplane is something.
Airplanes made me think of someone. Seeing an airplane gives me the hope of seeing that someone who is special to me. Everytime I see an airplane, I assume that my SS (someone special) is in that plane and in a moment or two, I’ll be able to meet him. I know it’s not possible but for a child, there’s nothing impossible, right?
And it goes on. I can’t help myself from assuming that he is really there in that plane I’m seeing, that he’s just there right above me looking for me on the ground –I’m hoping that I’ll see him, expecting that I’ll have him with me all the time like what I saw in any other toddlers.
Yes this goes on til I grew up –and so does the hurting.
Seeing an airplane is magical.. yet dismal.