I am not on the plane often. The last time was almost three years ago when I travelled with relatives. The flight was exhausting, lasting for more than fifteen hours. I remembered the last minutes when I was overwhelmed with the desperate need to get away from the closed space that carried too many lives. My skin and lip turned dry while breathing became difficult. I told myself, “I have been fooled for my whole life. The plane just looks nice, liberating and symbolically ideal from the outside. The inside is like prison.”
This time, I am also on a plane for fifteen hours straight but there are two different things. I am traveling by myself and I have photography and writing as companions.