As I look out the window and stare quietly into the clouds, I take note of its fluffy demeanor. A memory surfaces that took place from over a decade ago. I was about 12 and on my first airplane ride. I had dreamt of what it would be like to fly through and within the clouds. Clouds being untouchable and something only admired from far below, I imagined what it would look like being a part of something many can only gaze at. I pictured it being wispy and full of swirling soft bits of cotton, sweeping by my window as it coddled the plane all the way to its destination. I imagined magic within the clouds. I spent the first many hours anxiously awaiting the moment we would pull down from above them and soar among them.

A 12 year old clinging to the window when the rest of the passengers had resigned to their sleep in anticipation of a 13 hour plane ride. Finally, we slowly descended into the magic I had dreamt of. But I remained un-stirred. It quickly became clear that the only difference descending into the clouds had made was that from here, the sky was slightly less visible.

A 23 year old now, with a longing to return to the point where I clung to the clouds, I stare out the window. I stare and stare, and I am suddenly urged to smile. There within the clouds, I can still find a hint a magic. Within the clouds, with my thoughts, surrounded by memories. Magic.