waiting somewhere.

Delayed flights bring all manner of reflection and observation. Humanity drifts by, most of it generally impatient, waiting for a call on the loudspeaker or staring at the departure board. Some catch up on work, or read. Blackberries abound, laptops (like the one I'm typing this on) slowly drain their batteries. The sight and sound of someone shuffling a real deck of cards is pleasant, and has the ring of timelessness and antiquity. 

It's all some manner of escape. Some form of being somewhere else, of building a wall, of avoiding the grubby, anonymous sterility of their surroundings. They're somewhere that's on the way to somewhere else. Occasionally, there's a look of impatient excitement. They're on the way to somewhere special, perhaps for some special reason. It's nice to see. As refreshing as the sound of cards shuffling. 

I've travelled a lot recently. Well, relatively. I've driven thousands of miles round-trip, crossed four countries. Somewhere special, for something special. I haven't quite taken it all in yet;what I've seen, what happened. There's no respite. Reflection happens infrequently or all to often. You see more in it than what was there in the first place. 

And so I sit, waiting for the plane to board. My headphones are in and my fingers tap the keys. I've built my wall and I'm safely not here. 

I stare in the mirror and see more in it.

Too much.