Airports are places for regrets. Dreams are shattered and boundaries are drawn. Spaces are allocated and roles are prescribed. Clear plastic bags of liquids dangle from every hand. A laptop appears and disappears.
Airport bars are dark and generic. Without design. The waitresses look like men. Two men appear, why are they always in pairs? The bearded one looks like Kevin Smith and the other one has a clown face. Together they look like a performance team. It is as if they will break into a routine anytime. At the bar, old men sit drinking. They don't look like passengers, more like people on their way to nowhere drinking their way to oblivion.
Some trips begin well and end well. Others just begin. Mostly though, these trips don't end well. May be there is a Zen story to go with that one too. I think I know too many Budhist stories.
I don't see much. The lights have blocked out all the faces and memories. There is a last minute travel agent. There is a cheap deal to Istanbul, a poster for an expired trip to Sri Lanka.
By the elevator to the garage, a poster for a black-tie Christmas party hangs. In the underground garage, by a car, a trip to nowhere ends. Just as it begins. I must stop these trips forever. What is the point of a trip if you are farther behind than when you started?
It is raining hard outside. We used to say as kids that it rains when God is crying. Today God must be awfully sad, just like this faithless mortal.
