A couple of nights ago, I had a plane crash dream. Not a big deal, I have been having plane crash dreams for years – which I suppose contributes to my need to shit a brick every damn time I board a plane. But what was unusual about this one was that I was actually inside the plane when it crashed. Now, typically what happens during this recurring hell dream is that I am standing somewhere watching a plane takeoff and immediately afterward it crashes. Like, it plummets to the ground right in front of me and explodes. If I am lucky, right before it hits the ground, it turns into an inflatable whale, gently lands on the ground and old men with walkers all safely disembark by sliding down the emergency exit thingy (hmm, thinking 20th Century Fox needs to hear my pitch for Cocoon 3).
Category: dream chasing
On the morning of August 28th, 2014, at 9:45 in the morning I was sitting in a window seat on flight AC7738, and in the distance, perched atop the low-lying clouds, like a flawlessly crafted piece of art, sat the Manhattan skyline. I couldn’t help but notice how small, and insignificant it looked from so far away. But I already knew from my time previously spent there; it was anything but that. And it was for that very reason I was on that plane, that morning, anxiously awaiting touchdown and my first breath of New York City air. New York City is the love of my life, and as we approached – its vastness beginning to reveal itself – I sat hopeful, that somehow on the streets far below, she would be able to fix me. I was in desperate need of healing, and it was her I chose to help me. So, when I exited the airport shuttle in front of my hotel, I closed my eyes, inhaled the Manhattan air into my lungs and surrendered my broken self to the city…my love.