Getting High

As I come closer to knocking on the door of a particular age milestone (I don’t really know why we celebrate it), I’m stuck at a crossroad of realisations that this specific number brings with it. I know I’m no longer a child but why can’t I wear distressed jeans after the age of 25 (I’m looking at you Esquire!) and why should I have to start taking fish oil tablets? So maybe I’m having some kind of age related life crisis but for the first time in my life the only person who is really making any sense to me is Miley Cyrus… As I said, some kind of age related crisis. I mean her latest Candy magazine cover failed the eye roll test but her album Miley Cyrus and Her Dead Petz has for the last couple of weeks felt like someone gently whispering all the meanings of life in my ear. It offers a sense of insight and comfort that I haven’t felt for a long time from something or someone I can’t physically interact with.

Which brings me to my point, long before Miley and her lines about licking teeth (remember, some kind of age related crisis), I used to only find that kind of solace in the clouds, – maybe because they look so tactile but you can never actually touch them. The amount of times I’ve sat on a plane looking out the window mesmerized by those fluffy flick veils that separate us from the earth excite and terrify me as I’m reminded how high we are. But I like being high. From planes, to mountains to rooftops, the closer I am to the clouds, the closer I am to peace. And while London is pretty much flat, there are a few fantastic vantage points to see the sights and feel the heights. But if that all fails then just put Miley on repeat.