The Breath of High Places

There is a specific thinness to the air when you climb high enough to leave the noise of the earth behind. It tastes like cold iron and silence. I remember the feeling of being suspended in a space where gravity seems to lose its grip, leaving only the sensation of my own lungs expanding against the pressure of the void. It is a quiet, hollow ache in the chest, the kind that comes when you realize how small your own skin is compared to the vast, shifting architecture of the atmosphere. We spend our lives tethered to the soil, smelling the damp rot of leaves and the sharp sting of asphalt, forgetting that there is a world above that breathes in currents of ice and light. When the body is untethered, does it finally learn how to be still, or does it simply wait for the inevitable pull of the ground to return? What remains of us when we are no longer anchored to the things we can touch?

Sandra Frimpong has captured this weightless state in her beautiful image titled Sky collection. It feels like a long, slow exhale from a great height. Does this view make you feel anchored or adrift?