Going Home

                                                                                                            

        You are so far above your life. Everything you know is getting smaller by the minute. You’re in the middle of something you don’t understand. Your entire life put into terms you can’t define. Sky. It’s all over the place. Right now, it’s all there is.

         The stewardess strolling up and down the aisle, calm and confident, comfortable with her own ignorance.

         A compact community sharing nothing but a destination. A stranger next to you feeling good about dumping his load of a life story on you. Expecting justification and empathy. Seeking the comfort of strangers.

         Where you’re going is the past you left behind, now waiting for you, so it can mock the future you chose, the future that never happened. Set foot on motherland and it’ll devour you. It’s nothing but quicksand. You’re destined to be a failure and to realize one’s destiny is a person’s only obligation. The entire universe conspires in helping you achieve it.

         In your head a whirlwind of jagged memories and thoughts. Your luggage is a knapsack of belongings, the only proof you’re not a ghost.

         The plane is landing and all you can think of is crashing into pieces. It’s a mini mayhem on the plane. People grabbing their stuff, fussing around, talking on their cell phones, coming out of their mental seclusion.

         The guy can’t attach the ramp stairs to the plane. He pulls forward, then backs up and you know he’s drunk. This is your country after all. And he’s probably a decent guy. The stairs are finally on and after that much of a wait, it feels like walking down the red carpet. The whole little plane community scatters, going about their own business. Boris goes through security and first thing he’s asked is how much money he’s brought with him. It’s not random people that get mugged here. In this country everything’s interconnected. Synergy at its best. Paranoia, the best kind of awareness.

         You walk out of the airport and the air tastes bitter sweet. It’s a place that embraces you a little too tight. Uninvited memories start popping out of oblivion. You’ve got the look of a tourist, backpack and all. Backpacking through your future in the past. And you’d thought your grammar teacher was an idiot.