You asked, "Where do we go from here?" but I think this was a memory or a flashback brought on by the plane banking left as we descended into Reykjavik.
The flight attendant's hand lingered on my shoulder as she asked me to put my seat upright. Her eyes were suggestive, but I assumed mine looked tired, and my grin was hidden underneath my mask.
Am I the only one who wears a mask anymore?
I swear, whenever I am in this country, it is raining.
But a part of me tingles whenever I see the barren landscape, the nothingness that stretches into a wall of clouds.
I wait for my connecting flight and consider the thought, "Where do we go from here?"
Some might consider this landscape bleak and depressing.
Did we train our astronauts here on this lunar-like surface?
Where did I hear that? I may be making this up to occupy myself because I am tired, uncertain, and scared, and I know that life knows that I can see right through the paper-thin surface to the nucleus of it all.
I should catch my flight, but a part of me wants to walk into that lunar landscape and become certain - more certain of where we trained our astronauts.
There's this part of me that longs to wander into that terrain and understand that pulsating nucleus, comprehend the fluttering dance that wakes when the plane banks on landing, when a hand lingers on my shoulder, or when a voice whispers out of a flashback, "Where do we go from here?"