excerpts from a travel-notebook

[. . .]
I'd love for all of those moments to be ours.

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The M-Sp Airport carpet looks like chickens have traced their oddly shaped feet in wild tracks throughout the room. Interspersed with taupe lines that look like combs of sound waves -- sound shocks -- that span from one end to the next. I feel like I've been here before. I feel like I've said all of this, already. Only one boring world would punctuate itself with a color like taupe.

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There's something about C that makes me want to walk faster -- that makes me want to immerse myself into endless cups of coffee -- of conversation -- that makes me want to forget myself in a fog of cigarette smoke and noise. There's something about this place that quiets the voices in my head.

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My flight arrived almost two hours ago.

At the airport waiting again -- when all I want to do is move -- calm this sudden urge to run and hear my own voice louder than it needs to be. There's a conflict in the moments here that spins me into and out of the difference between the real and the imagined. As if I'm that girl I see in the mirror -- but when pinched -- I'd never feel the sting. I've no bags to claim and there's no cab ride to deliver me home.