An Essay for Lost Luggage

This is it.

Caught in some dreadful void between the pseudo-reality of old memories and my current condition of cyclical transit. A whole host of beautiful creatures, which due to the rather impractical & distinctly unsexy setting of an airport remain foreign to me.

Waiting. Smoking. Coding while waiting.

If there was ever a notion of purgatory in my mind, now it has become apparent. Everything is slightly out of reach, accompanied the constant thorn in your ass telling you not to relax too much. Like mentally squatting for an entire day.

Of course having only one set of clothes is an integral part of any good purgatory. The continuous effort not to perspire too much is like attempting to hold water in one hand whilst diving: self-defeating. No clothes would just be straight hell, no question.

If you want a task for your worst enemy:

  • Flying approximately every 8 hours
  • No fresh clothes
  • Lost luggage