I can't believe I forgot my journal. It will have to be all electronic for the following weeks which will be a little less random, a little more planned, but probably more efficient. This February marks 3 years from my last panic attack, on a plane which is where I find myself now, flight two of three to Hawaii. I've gone from not being able to fly uninterrupted by anxiety, even with my most comforting of people to flying completely alone and being able to sleep. Granted I find my body a little too excited and my mind too thoughtful to rest sufficiently. I've already met 3 people who are interesting enough to write about, to remember. I'm sure I've met more, but I haven't had the chance to ask them their story. Everyone has a story, it's obvious we are not surrounded by drones, only seemingly uninteresting people who, if we dig enough, we can find something interesting to note. I imagine myself having enough time to collect the stories of many people, to compile them into a collection, to publish it, to share it. As if I would be a peaceful interrogator: give me just 5 minutes with that person, I can get something interesting out of them; no consequences for not getting the story.

It's strange to me how people draw their plane window shades once the sun sets as if they're at home and people on the outside might be able to see them because of the interior lights. The sun isn't shining in and blinding them. There are no street lights shining in their eyes preventing them from sleep. If anything it harbors more intensely the feeling that we're in a plastic-lined metal tube which can amazingly cross oceans at thirty thousand feet. This reminds me of my first person of interest I met this morning. We're about to descend. The pilot says we have 25 minutes to a 78 degree land. We're an hour behind schedule and I'm convinced we've spent it in the air, an extra hour of flying in a straight line. I'll have 11 hours instead of 12 to spend in the airport waiting for my third flight tomorrow.