Demolishing Horizons

I enjoy taking off in airplanes.

There’s something about the rattling of the compartment, being pushed back in your seat and breaking loose from gravity — against all odds — in order to reach your destination faster.

Mankind broke away from the earth for convenience.

We then took it a step further, escaping the atmosphere and casting chunks of metal, dogs, monkeys, and finally human beings into space. Why? Because we could. Because we felt we needed to and we don’t suffer barriers.

Think of the last time you gazed out to sea or over a wide, open expanse of land. Your sight seemed almost limitless; you could see for miles and miles.

That distance is increased a hundred-fold while you’re in an airplane. The higher you go, the further away the horizon stretches until you can see further than any bird, any cloud, or any god on Mount Olympus.

Now imagine how that horizon disappears completely as you pull away into space. There’s no longer anything between you and seeing forever out into the vastness of eternity.

On Earth, the most powerful telescope will eventually come up short because of the curve of the planet. From the air, the distance to that horizon is increased, but it’s still there. From space, you could gaze outward forever, limited only by your ingenuity and technology. You can see into the past or travel far enough, fast enough, to launch yourself into the future.

Any barrier can be broken with the right application of mental force and calculated risk.

And what is a horizon but a barrier to be broken through?

Update: December 2, 2016

Well said, self.

I still love airplanes. I’ve even, strangely, come to love the periodic bursts of turbulence. I’m sure there’s a metaphor somewhere in there.