To witness a sunrise from the inside of a plane is like having a ringside seat for a magic show in slow motion.
For a while all you can see is a blanket of haze, and then - through a tiny crack in the clouds way out in the distance - the first glimmer of light, which in turn appears to combine with the smog to set the stage for what is still to come.
As the eyes adjust, they start to discern shapes and patterns, and the clouds seem to part like curtains to allow for an unobstructed view. The scene now shape-shifts and resembles a shoreline; and while you can just about make out the horizon from the tiny burning filament of light, there is no way to otherwise distinguish between land, sea and sky.
Some clouds continue to toss and tumble across this aerial arena, while others spontaneously sprout out from the floor of the sky like pillars of steam. Meanwhile, the plane engines act like giant fog machines, heightening the drama by emitting streams of vapour onto this glorious theatre.
Now the glowing line of light in the distance grows in intensity. Colours mix in with other colours- a bit of gold here, a dash of purple there. The whole scene looks like it’s being stirred in a pot, slowly simmering but not quite coming to a boil, with a consistency that’s simultaneously liquid and gas. It seems both real and breathtakingly fake at the same time.
And then- without so much as a warning, it appears- the sun in all its blinding brilliance. The sheer artistic scope of it makes it feel as though it should be a rare and unusual event. And yet, twenty-four hours later, it happens again. Similar each time, but, like the best of shows, never the same.
Magic. The world practically abounds with it.
For a while all you can see is a blanket of haze, and then - through a tiny crack in the clouds way out in the distance - the first glimmer of light, which in turn appears to combine with the smog to set the stage for what is still to come.
As the eyes adjust, they start to discern shapes and patterns, and the clouds seem to part like curtains to allow for an unobstructed view. The scene now shape-shifts and resembles a shoreline; and while you can just about make out the horizon from the tiny burning filament of light, there is no way to otherwise distinguish between land, sea and sky.
Some clouds continue to toss and tumble across this aerial arena, while others spontaneously sprout out from the floor of the sky like pillars of steam. Meanwhile, the plane engines act like giant fog machines, heightening the drama by emitting streams of vapour onto this glorious theatre.
Now the glowing line of light in the distance grows in intensity. Colours mix in with other colours- a bit of gold here, a dash of purple there. The whole scene looks like it’s being stirred in a pot, slowly simmering but not quite coming to a boil, with a consistency that’s simultaneously liquid and gas. It seems both real and breathtakingly fake at the same time.
And then- without so much as a warning, it appears- the sun in all its blinding brilliance. The sheer artistic scope of it makes it feel as though it should be a rare and unusual event. And yet, twenty-four hours later, it happens again. Similar each time, but, like the best of shows, never the same.
Magic. The world practically abounds with it.
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