Airports are life-teaming hubs, filled with the hustle and bustle of people on the move, people with a destination, a kaleidoscopic mix of looks and attitudes, sexy high-heels, trendy black coats, jet black silky hair, blonds, brunettes, and redheads strutting with style, followed by the ogling eyes of waiting-to-be-boarded unleashed let us call them, for the sake of generalization, pseudo-bachelors, who tend to completely ignore every flower pattern clad limping lady.
Airports are transitory passages, where chaos theory is the name of the game, with blueberries buzzing and flashing, illuminated gizmos of the most efficient kind, with the fingers of high-tech junkies sliding and tap-tapping with resolute determination, or just out of habit, and so as not to feel left out. Life is a busy place, especially for those who are busy avoiding it.
Airports are totally unchecked fashion runways, where anything and everything is bound to happen, as chic meets sharp, as shooting-for-fabulous gives way to could-care-less, business pushing past leisure, the ancient dragging-its-reptilian-bottom past the slick and modern, assertive strides side-stepping the self-conscious, and a whole AliBaba’s cave’s worth of accessories, I-phones, earphones, laptops and who-knows-what-I-might-just-have-missed.
Airport are a world of sounds, and voices, interspersed conversations, the sound of no-non-sense shoes on marble floors, flight announcements, Priority passengers, Elite/Platinum members, first class, group 1, 2, 3... Etc. The system is feudal, socially stratified, and money buys a better experience, and if not, well at least, a finer affiliation. Meanwhile, the tap-tapping of shoes continues, accompanied by momentary visions of black leather, gray slacks, cool hair-dos, cool shades, their opposite, tired folks, lost folks, security, staff members pushing wheel-chaired travelers, Rabbis, Hijabs, more blackberries, frappucinos, Cappucinos, Starbucks to-go cups…
The airport is flooded with life, with transient experiences, snapshots of hundreds of unrelated lives, and sitting watching, taking it all in, wishing for something more, whishing for someone to meet someone, for Cupid’s intervention, and I’d settle of the role of the pleased, agreeable, supportive witness. I’d bless the moment. I’d savor it and thank the gods for allowing passion to flow through that world of hustling and bustling drifters. Yes, I’d thank the gods and while I’m at it, I’d definitely throw in a little something for myself, what with having a rock and two birds to strike, I’d ask that my turn may not take too long to come.
Be well, and as long as you're at it, always allow love to find you
P.S: Forgive any typo you might notice, for I do not have enough battery life to fix them all
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