(no subject)
I wrote this at the airport the other day. I like it. I thought I'd share.
This is a melee. There is so much noise. It’s almost too much humanity to handle without headphones on. The old moccasin man in front of me is doing Sudoku in pen. There are babies gurgling, handhelds clicking, and plastic voices coming over the intercom.
I am angry. I guess that proves that I care.
There are few things I love more than traveling alone. There is a simple independence in it. You casually buy a sandwich and a bottle of water, sit at your leisure, casually keeping an eye on the time. You don’t have to talk to anyone or deal with anyone else’s crap. You’re going somewhere, getting away for a while, just you, yourself. You can probe the corners of your brain in the quiet. They fucked up your sandwich, it’s not what you ordered, but it still tastes just fine.
There are no outlets in this place.
A father is lovingly gazing at his son, a reminder that he is not alone, and, if he’s lucky, he may have a few more generations of remembrance than the rest of us. In our hope to leave our mark we leave our children, and we hope to god they will like us so they’ll tell the world about how great we were, or we thought we were.
I’m going somewhere today. I’m always going somewhere. But where am I really going?
We actually put thought into things like matching our bracelets with our headbands and shoes.
You can see the world in an airport. All types of people. The business executive taps away, the clefts in his forehead growing as you watch. The harangued parents sprint back and forth in some bizarre relay, handing off babies and bottles and clinky colorful toys. Restless leg gal jackhammers the ground in the hopes that she might be able to sink into it and hide for a while. You can read the sadness on some, and you wonder where they’ve been, where they’re coming from…and why they look so god damned exhausted with life. Give me your tired and your sick, your weary and your broken? They’re all here, lost in the limbo that an airport is; a junction between this place and the next, suspended somewhere between numbness, sterilized silver countertops and really ugly carpet.
You just watching life froth and bubble in front of you, passing you by. Waiting for something to pick you up off the ground and take you somewhere new.
This is a melee. There is so much noise. It’s almost too much humanity to handle without headphones on. The old moccasin man in front of me is doing Sudoku in pen. There are babies gurgling, handhelds clicking, and plastic voices coming over the intercom.
I am angry. I guess that proves that I care.
There are few things I love more than traveling alone. There is a simple independence in it. You casually buy a sandwich and a bottle of water, sit at your leisure, casually keeping an eye on the time. You don’t have to talk to anyone or deal with anyone else’s crap. You’re going somewhere, getting away for a while, just you, yourself. You can probe the corners of your brain in the quiet. They fucked up your sandwich, it’s not what you ordered, but it still tastes just fine.
There are no outlets in this place.
A father is lovingly gazing at his son, a reminder that he is not alone, and, if he’s lucky, he may have a few more generations of remembrance than the rest of us. In our hope to leave our mark we leave our children, and we hope to god they will like us so they’ll tell the world about how great we were, or we thought we were.
I’m going somewhere today. I’m always going somewhere. But where am I really going?
We actually put thought into things like matching our bracelets with our headbands and shoes.
You can see the world in an airport. All types of people. The business executive taps away, the clefts in his forehead growing as you watch. The harangued parents sprint back and forth in some bizarre relay, handing off babies and bottles and clinky colorful toys. Restless leg gal jackhammers the ground in the hopes that she might be able to sink into it and hide for a while. You can read the sadness on some, and you wonder where they’ve been, where they’re coming from…and why they look so god damned exhausted with life. Give me your tired and your sick, your weary and your broken? They’re all here, lost in the limbo that an airport is; a junction between this place and the next, suspended somewhere between numbness, sterilized silver countertops and really ugly carpet.
You just watching life froth and bubble in front of you, passing you by. Waiting for something to pick you up off the ground and take you somewhere new.