I think I’m something of an anomaly when it comes to airports and flying. I actually enjoy both, which doesn’t seem to be the common sentiment for humanity at large. In fact, it appears that flying is the more dreaded part of traveling for most, which consequently makes me wonder why those who say they love to travel so often hate the traveling part of it.
I mean, flying is traveling, is it not?
And then there is me, who really couldn’t care less about traveling, but loves flying and could spend an entire day in an airport and feel content and refreshed at the end of it.
Airports are like portals in-between multiple worlds, and when I’m there I observe so much of what I would not otherwise see. It’s as if I can be nowhere, and watch life happen all around me while I disappear for a while in a world that is not really a world at all. It’s like opening a book and reading chapter thirteen and then closing it again; I never do get to see what happens in the end, but there is something mysteriously enchanting about that.
I’m sure by now you think me a bit barmy (if you didn’t already) which I cannot blame you for. As I said, I am aware this is a peculiar state of mind, but it just happens to be mine.
Speaking of peculiarities, I noticed something recently that it’s taken me a while to realize. When it comes to writing, as that is where I tend to express my thoughts most unabashedly, I do not tell stories of the main plot or theme, I tell of the in-betweens.
How odd. For instance, I just took a trip to Seattle last week to see my friend Q. It’s never crossed my mind to tell you about my trip itself, as delightful as it was, I am drawn to the random corners along the way instead.
Thus, the aforementioned thoughts regarding airports and travel. And why don’t I tell the ‘real’ story and actually share my trip with you?
Good question, that is precisely what I’ve been asking myself.
I suppose I just don’t feel like the main story is usually where ‘the story’ is, if you know what I mean. It seems that life more often happens in the in-between where no is looking or paying much attention. That is, come to think of it, why I write to begin with- to capture the journey, not the destination. To write for an hour about a child picking flowers and how that reminds me about love, never about why I was there to begin with. After all, life is made up of getting from here to there, so rarely is the ‘here’ or ‘there’ the part that really matters in the end.
That’s how I see it anyway.
Or maybe I just use those corners to hide behind so no one really knows me or my own story at it’s depths. I’m sure there is some truth to that as well, if I’m brutally honest, though I don’t think that negates the value of the in-between in any way. I hardly think anything could.