Oil paint in Water: The Night Before Christmas

We’re descending towards Kastrup and the sky is a wonderfully enlightening shade of misty crimson that seems to dance on into all eternity. IF I could choose a moment to be stuck in for all of time, it would probably be this one, high above the curious white patchwork of clouds a few hundred feet below me looking at the glistening aluminum wings of the plane on the first day after the winter solstice. I don’t care about what lies beneath the clouds but still it interests me as I sit here feeling the force of the plane descending, that beautiful feeling of free fall that is so wholeheartedly unfamiliar yet so indescribably elating. It seems as if we’re flying into the pink / crimson horizon, as if in a flash we’ll be on the other side of a new and utterly different world of warmth and colour. And even as the crimson fades and its beauty is relegated to static vibrations that linger ever so daintily, I still love this place, and these fleeting colours before me, and I wish that everyone around me could feel what I feel, for all eternity

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