Airports
are promise and loss at once. Places without shelter, built of glass,
concrete, and air conditioning. You wait—always wait. For flights,
for connections, for arrivals. For coffee that tastes like nothing.
The sky glares. Shadows on the pavement grow long. People look smaller than usual. No one is really there. Everyone is going somewhere, caught between motion and standstill. Voices fade, suitcase wheels clack on tile. Doors open without resistance.
Nothing smells like the world here, even though the world begins here.
Everything is transition. Airports are cathedrals of the
in-between. Airports turn us into shadows. Glassy emptiness where
people are scanned and exposed. You empty your pockets, show your
shoes. Belt off. Laptop out. Hands up. Metal, light, X-ray, signs.
Then you’re allowed to move on.
If you make it through, you reward yourself under the duty-free lights: whiskey, nougat, perfume—tax-free, but still expensive. A bag of luxury for comfort.
Spotlit luxury cars sit on pedestals like in a futuristic temple.
No one looks. No one knows why they’re there. Maybe because no one asks.
People drift through the halls. Coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Children squeal. Men in suits check their watches. A screen flickers. The gate still unnamed.
Waiting becomes a pastime. You do nothing and still feel tired.
We’re
on our way—but to where?
