Bright idea, wasn't it.
What better to fight the pull of gravity than a
heavy machine. Blades that
beat at the air, as if to find
handholds in the sky until, oh dear,
we've started the climb. Why why why
am I doing this. You do realize, don't you,
that we haven't eliminated our weight from the
delicate equation that holds our very lives in its precarious
balance. Actually, the addition of forces, vectors, and
yes, more weight, no doubt exponentially increases the
complexity and, likewise, the
danger, and yet you feel just
fine putting your faith in the numbers.
You didn't follow any of that, did you. Ugh, you're so
stupid. You're smiling right now. How can you be
so idiotically unconcerned? Can't you feel,
can't you physically feel
the vertigo of possible miscalculations, the natural inclination
of everything to tip
and send us hurtling down? My legs
have become hollow, just one lovely symptom
of my hyper-awareness of the continuous
fight to stay adrift. Relax for
just one moment, and--um, excuse me, Mr. Pilot, sir, but ISN'T THIS
HIGH ENOUGH ALREADY?!
Fine then, let's keep gaining altitude, further
provoking Earth's terrible separation
anxiety. What jealous
wrath will envelop us when she pulls us
down from our blasphemous escape, righteous
retribution for our discontent with her
most generous provision. I'm not making
sense anymore? Well, what did you expect?!
Don't you know that death would be instant?
that we would suffer excrutiating pain?
Okay fine I'll shut up, so you can
enjoy the "experience" of "flying" without
my bad attitude. Sorry not sorry. I think
I've left my manners, and my stomach, somewhere