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Funny how airports are nowhere land. Neither here nor there. A torn space. Space that doesn’t belong to anyone. Sort of. A limbo of sorts. A purgatory of travelers. A bubble.
An intersection of the past and the future. A present. An airport is the present. Always present. It’s nothing BUT present. And I find myself reflecting, pondering, waiting. The present presents me myself on a platter: who I WAS. Who I WILL be. All the present does is to present. So while I’m here in an airport, all I have to do is face it. Face my present self: the limbo. The purgatory. The present. The NOW.
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AuthorIn April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling. Categories
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Header Art: Daniel Landerman |
Photos used under Creative Commons from chocolatedazzles, Jocelyn777 Love Europe, ONE-MILLION
