She knew, more than anyone else, how making a living had, over the years, equated itself to being her life. She knew how it had made her, and she knew how it had broken her. Yet, she still constantly gave herself away to the thing that had caused her pain. She thought that the saying “no pain, no gain” was applicable to her situation. Truth was, she had the pain, but never the gain. Money, to her, was no longer a gain. It had become a curse, reminding her of what she had lost—of what could have been. She had always wanted to be free, to roam around the world, to see things other women have never seen. Her longing for that piece of freedom grew and, in time, she had captured it and forced it into a cage for her own use. But she had run out of places to run to. Cities and countries, she realized, all looked the same without the familiar faces. When she had gone home, there were no familiar faces to greet her. So she had turned back to the one stability she had clung to out of fear: her job, her living.
The red-headed pilot wondered whether life gives one a job, or if a job gives one a life, as she flew the plane, the ocean below her, the clouds, above. To say she was daydreaming as she stared into the sky would be incorrect, for daydreams come from the make-believe. She took nothing from the make-believe—she wanted something real. Instead she weaved together old threads of past memories, a small smile finding its way on her face. Minutes later, that sweet smile would pass as her mind averts from the memories of her past to the realities of her future, and how she’d come home to the company of solitude once more.