Amidst the comfort of flight, we have lost track of its miraculousness. We embark on great journeys spanning many hours and meridians of mercator space. We purchase tickets that guarantee our arrival. For a nominal charge, we are assured that our possessions will appear intact and, if not, someone will be held accountable. Then we proceed through immense palisades of machinery that guarantee our security before sampling terminal cuisine and stepping aboard a tube that will ascend into the stratosphere and descend again. But it’s more complex than that isn’t it? In all the history of mankind there has never been something as wonderfully utilitarian as flight. We, the heirs of millennia of humanity, are spoiled by this convenience. The vastness of our trek is disarticulated by altitude. We know not the hardships of insurmountable spaces, only the seeming ease of the shortcut. Our trek westward is not that of our forefathers. It is much more insidious. The perils are intangible, but just as lethal. The intense pressure and friction of prolonged human contact. A lack of space despite our seeming mastery of it. The constant rubbing. The back and forth shoves that push us closer to the chasm. These are the realities that sublimate themselves into a vast subterranean tension. Unseen, but surely felt. The unspoken dread. The unacknowledged foreboding. It eats at us. Demands that we come to grips with what we’ve become. Acknowledgement.
― Dan Johnson, Brea or Tar