So I collected my thoughts and my blessings, folded up my ambitions and aspirations like shirts and pressed them all into the geometric confines of a rectangular suitcase. Gripped the handle and pulled it down the hallway, down the stairs, found a place in the trunk for my zippered box of everything.
And as I sat in the terminal with my ticket and my eye on the clock, counting departures and arrivals; As I sat there, watching strangers collide with their loved ones, I realized that maybe it’s not so much about me.
That maybe it’s not so much about what I could do if I had more time or more words. Maybe it’s not about thinking or breathing, even. Maybe it’s bigger than that. Maybe it’s more about being a vessel. Maybe it’s about projecting more than myself, stepping outside this egocentric mold we’ve all grown into. Maybe it’s about appreciating the universal nature of the things I see around me.
And when I see two people embrace from across a crowded room, I’m not smiling because I can relate that to myself, I’m smiling because I can relate that to all of us.
So thirty thousand feet above the east coast, I collected myself and everyone else, smoothed out all the rough edges and found a place for everything.
14-15-18-20-8-5-18-14 12-9-7-8-20-19.
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