Alexandra Konstanti

I am strapped into my seat, my seatbelt fastened, yet my thoughts are utterly unrestrained. The turbulence keeps me from pacing the aisle, and I have no desire to read or mindlessly scroll through my phone. So, instead, I gaze out the window. From up here, the world stretches endlessly, a patchwork of glowing cities and winding roads, their lights shimmering like fallen stars. It’s mesmerizing—this silent brilliance beneath me, a testament to human existence. How did we get here? How did this planet, once an unbroken expanse of land and sea, fragment into borders and nations? How did we go from primitive wanderers to travelers soaring above continents in mere hours? There was a time when people didn’t even know other tribes or lands existed. Now, we cross the sky without a second thought. And yet, I wonder—what if, for just a moment, all those lights below were to vanish? A sudden, absolute blackout. Would the world pause? Would we realize how fragile our brilliance is? We have conquered distance, reshaped landscapes, and bent the elements to our will. We have risen, defied, built, and rebuilt. And yet, for all our might, we remain so small—helpless before the whims of nature. A storm can ground our planes, an earthquake can crumble our cities, and the sea, in its quiet fury, can swallow entire coasts without hesitation.

For a fleeting second, I feel like a small god looking down upon our species, overwhelmed by a strange mix of awe and compassion. If there is a God—or gods—watching over us, what do they see? Do they feel pride, sorrow, hope?Fifty years from now, how will this view change? Will it?