By Mehak Anwar, Editor in Chief, Emerson College
“Flight attendants please prepare the cabin for landing."
As the plane begins to descend over a nighttime city, all the passengers shift their attention to the glory that is urban America.
The world below glistens as if a sheet of stars were draped over the earth to hide its irregularities. There are constellations made out of pure gold and rings of fire, but from here in the clouds they appear to be perfect points of light, globes leaking light, light zipping through any crack it can find.
I wonder if the stars in space are also cities. Ancient cities that have sprung to life from the detritus of asteroid explosions, from plasma and helium and nuclear fusion.
I wonder what would happen if you folded the rest of the universe into neatly packed sphere and placed it next to earth. Would it be as robust? Would it exude such brilliance? Would it experience the crests and troughs of a living, breathing organism?
Everyone is looking out the window. We are all having poetic thoughts. We are suddenly all writers and artists. We are all suddenly inspired to intrepidly search every snow-capped peak and every unexplored grotto to achieve nirvana. We are all suddenly hopeless romantics. we are all suddenly hopelessly nostalgic.
And we are all suddenly alone because we think no one else understands.
The plane lands. The city has dissolved and there is only a vast expanse of runway ahead of us.
Some lady turns her phone on, a vaguely familiar sound accompanying it. Everyone else follows suit. Suddenly the light that seemed to encompass infinity fits into your hand.
The phones start to receive signal. The notifications begin.
And we are all suddenly elsewhere.
“Flight attendants please prepare the cabin for landing."
As the plane begins to descend over a nighttime city, all the passengers shift their attention to the glory that is urban America.
The world below glistens as if a sheet of stars were draped over the earth to hide its irregularities. There are constellations made out of pure gold and rings of fire, but from here in the clouds they appear to be perfect points of light, globes leaking light, light zipping through any crack it can find.
I wonder if the stars in space are also cities. Ancient cities that have sprung to life from the detritus of asteroid explosions, from plasma and helium and nuclear fusion.
I wonder what would happen if you folded the rest of the universe into neatly packed sphere and placed it next to earth. Would it be as robust? Would it exude such brilliance? Would it experience the crests and troughs of a living, breathing organism?
Everyone is looking out the window. We are all having poetic thoughts. We are suddenly all writers and artists. We are all suddenly inspired to intrepidly search every snow-capped peak and every unexplored grotto to achieve nirvana. We are all suddenly hopeless romantics. we are all suddenly hopelessly nostalgic.
And we are all suddenly alone because we think no one else understands.
The plane lands. The city has dissolved and there is only a vast expanse of runway ahead of us.
Some lady turns her phone on, a vaguely familiar sound accompanying it. Everyone else follows suit. Suddenly the light that seemed to encompass infinity fits into your hand.
The phones start to receive signal. The notifications begin.
And we are all suddenly elsewhere.