When I was small I always thought the windows of planes were really big, big enough to look at the clouds and yet not lose sight of the ground. My frame of reference were trains, the trains with wider windows. I could see the whole world passing by through those windows and yet still be left with a space to fill a small thought of mine, but with planes I was pretty wrong, they were barely a foot and a half across, I could barely see the clouds, leave the thought I can put in that picture..

Every time I fly, I'm reminded of this, how easily I can be wrong, how flawed my perception of the world can be—and how comfortable I can get living with those perceptions. It makes me wonder why I've always been so hungry for truth, for far fetched painful facts, for that precise temperature of the Sun's core or the chill on the dark side of the Moon. After all, I've watched people shiver on the warmest days, shrink away from the morning light, and refuse to turn on a lamp when they're scared. Feelings and facts don't usually align.

So which matters more, how do you validate human feelings and differentiate them with the facts? Sometimes, I've wholeheartedly believed 63 + 47 is equal to 100, although Maths doesn't allow it to change based on my moods and timing of the day. Maybe this is why there are only two real tragedies in life- getting what you want and not getting it at all.

To live with the idea that yes from planes I could see the world and yet have a foot and a half to paint my thoughts, doesn't make much sense, yet it made me happy. And happiness like the other three- religion, legacy and freedom- might just be another illusion.

All this gibberish is not of much help, but as my flight ends I would like to make some sense of it, learning the actual size of airplane windows satisfied me, even if it didn't bring happiness. And I was much more concerned about the facts than caring about this cute little thing called happiness.You have to choose your truth, and I have chosen facts.

See ya, the plane has landed.

Bye.

R.