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Beginnings and Middle Parts Thoughts

By Mikayla Brody

My stomach is bouncing somewhere above Greenland, already corroded by anxiety.

My lungs already dried and compressed by the recycled ‘air’.

My eyes soured by the batallions of tiny glowing screens. And yet, I’m really okay.

Maybe its the eleven men who rose at daybreak to gather their tfillin and recite their morning prayers, because God still exists on an airplane.

Maybe its seeing everybody's untied shoes scattered between the aisles and everybody's scrunched up foreheads as they desperately try to get just 5 minutes more sleep because they have a life to live when they land.

Maybe its my complimentary, Maple syrup cookies that make me happy because someone tried to make something different and make me sad because the difference wasn’t good and I just wanted chocolate chip. Maybe these things make me feel a little bit better, a little less alone on my voyage.

I tried listening to a bunch of different podcasts to pass the time. I figured that going hour by hour on podcast would seem faster than minute by minute songs. I am on a giant metal bird, soaring through the sky and I am trying to pass time. Make things move quicker than they already are at 626 miles per hour at 37,000 feet.

Rush to the good part, Mikayla.

Rush to when we arrive, rush to move-in day, rush to going out with strangers on a Saturday night and coming back as friends, rush to classes starting, rush to me blowing off work for the classes and getting bored with the classes and getting bored with my friends and getting bored with the city, and rush to come home. 5 months. Where?

I used to think that 5 months would be a long time.

My stomach is bouncing somewhere between the ocean and the street corner I puked on two nights ago, already corroded by anxiety of how to get the most out of my time in Tel Aviv. My desperate quest to remind myself that I am in a far off land.

Overgrown jungle gardens draped over balconies of shuffled and shuttered apartment buildings; toes stretching out over the fronts of neon Havianas waiting to cross from the sand to the sidewalks; frequent eye contact, less frequent smiles.

Pregaming cocktails of Arak and Tequila with cocktails of kale and beet juice; worshiping God and praying for salvation then praying for a new dress and worshipping how you'll look in the mirror.

Sometimes I forget that I am here, sometimes I remember and start to cry.

Sometimes I forget that I am not here forever, sometimes I remember and start to cry.