Written a few months ago while sitting at Gate 19, waiting for my flight to board
Airports – a pseudo-poem
What is this place?
This stretch of space,
long with gates that aren’t gates.
What is this place?
This stretch of space.
It is nothing, a hollow room, a world undefined.
It is stillness, the space between, where nothing moves and all things wait.
It is chaos, the churning waves, where all things move and nothing waits.
How to define such a thing?
It is a world between worlds, where all that matters is what was and what will be. The now is non-existent, the moment is gone. It is the reminiscence of that which was left behind and the anticipation of that which lies ahead. It is nothing, and this nothingness defines it.
A mother carries a child, a child carries a spider-man backpack.
Maybe she is in the wrong gate that isn’t a gate.
Maybe she wants to grab a duty-free snack.
Across from me a couple wearing matching AC/DC t-shirts laugh. I wonder what the joke is. Her jeans are ripped, his are not.
Someone is standing on the moving walkway; their suitcase blocks the twenty behind who try to pass. Sorry, he realises his mistake. But it is too late. The walkway has ended. He steps off and heads for Gate 17. The twenty behind him scour at time lost.
Hoodies with university logos.
Sweatpants.
Headphones.
IPhones.
Yoga pants.
The doors to Gate number 25 are closing.
Passenger John Harmon needs to report to Gate 25.
Maybe the man running is John Harmon.
What is this place?
I don’t care, as long as it takes me where I am going.
What is this place?
I don’t care, as long as it takes me from where I was.
What is this place?
This stretch of space,
long with gates that aren’t gates.
What is this place?
This stretch of space.
It is nothing, a hollow room, a world defined by its absence.
It is stillness, the space between, where nothing moves and all things wait.
It is chaos, the churning waves, where all things move and nothing waits.