Airports
Supposedly, the three most likely to come up with some brilliant ideas places and times are: the bath, the bed when you’re about to fall asleep, and the public transport. All of them signify aloneness, but this sort of ultimate one, the one we don’t admit, the one we unconsciously reject in horror.
Taking a relaxing bath is all about you and the water. Maybe some bubbles and candles. Where you can dive with your eyes shut and feel womby cosy. There is no one looking, and you reach the state of utter peace and comfort.
You’re in the bed, there is someone sleeping next to you, there’s another pillow and another steady breath. There’s his arm around you, hopefully not yet dead. But if you looked closer, you’d see how you both share Space — but not the Essence. The Essence is yours. You may dream the same dreams, but you fall asleep alone. You die alone.
Another paradox is the train. With all the people hanging above your head, all chattering or silent, with whom you feel no connection, apart from moving in the same direction. Or perhaps that’s enough? No matter what, you may know it, they don’t have to. And that’s enough to feel lonely.
In these instances of delving into yourself, there is a chance to coming up with something creative. In our solitude and isolation, one finds the peace of mind. You’ll agree, we need people to perform life, but to perform Art — we must attain comfort, we must learn comfort from and in Loneliness.
I don’t like airports because they’re all there is to oppose to what I thought out above. You feel lonely, but not at ease lonely, bath lonely. It’s confusion that takes over. There’s too much stimuli, too much little tricky lights to draw attention, too much announcements, too many boards and arrows pointing in random directions. You may lay next to someone you trust, but you can never find trust in the time that passes all too quickly, or just bloody strangely, at the airport. You’re always late, always rushing, with the over-sized luggage, or with always too much time and then waiting and waiting, and waiting, anxious of falling asleep and missing the flight. And finally, there are people, but connection isn’t about using the same engine. They look odd, talk odd, move odd, smell odd. Like a furious mob of turtles, they attack you with indifference. And so you feel lonely, but also distracted and sad.
I like being creative, I want to have a head of ideas, I want to keep it clear and tidy. Perhaps to be it, we must both, embrace and love our sweet Isolation. Doesn’t love mean trust and safety? Or maybe it’s all about feeling significant, deeply in who you are. Isolated, no one is there to tell you’re worthless, and you can act your story whatever way you chose.
Airports aren’t either safe nor trustworthy. They are big, huge, large, massive, enormous, immense — making me overwhelmingly small. Insignificant. We’re all in this together and there is no Special, sure. But then, I prefer my illusion of being significant among the bubbles, to some big window and silver tubes illusion of insignificance, confusion and loss.
