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wings & whispers

I wasn’t supposed to end up in a jet cockpit. Somewhere between a shrug and a dare, there I am strapped in, headset buzzing, more buttons than sense in front of me. I tell people it was “just for the thrill” but that’s the polite version. The truth is uglier and better: the moment the engine woke, something in me stopped pretending it wasn’t hungry for it.

There’s a neat line between reckless and precise and I like to walk it in socks. Hands on the controls, the world thins to a humming panel and my own breath; the sky doesn’t flatter you for long and neither do mistakes. Still, I grin when the throttle pushes us into a ribbon of cloud part because it feels ridiculous, part because there’s a private, quiet joy in proving gravity wrong for a while. I almost sang into the mic. Almost. (Don’t tell anyone I wanted to.)

Did I get a license stamped in some official book? Maybe. I know enough to make the sky feel smaller and that’s dangerously satisfying.
So yeah: I learned to fly a jet. I also learned that machines don’t forgive bullshit, that clouds are loud and that adrenaline makes a decent cocktail with a bad decision. If you see me staring up at a plane, don’t ask if I’ll take you up, ask whether you’re ready to keep up.



Yeah, that’s me with the jet. Totally casual. Not saying I learned to fly just to impress people… But I’m also not not saying that. Let’s call it a public service: blue skies, fast machines and a guy who knows how to grin through turbulence. You’re welcome.