I was that person running to my gate, terminal 1 CDG, my limbs aching from sleeplessness and the weight of my carry-on. The bags tugged me down, wanted to coax me onto the floor, but my legs pushed forward. I heard my name echo over the loudspeaker three times, then four. The plane wanted to leave to Keflavik International without me.
Suspended in the air, or flying through some country-side highway, hours spent staring out of windows thinking and trying not to think. I said once that I only feel at home when I’m in motion, but I don’t know whether “home” or “motion” are the right words.
There is a certain comfort in long-distance travel. It’s not so much the act of being in transit, because the experience itself is very still, very removed. Suspended.
Emotional and physical exhaustion wore me down and I nearly cracked from the strain a few times along this last journey. Break-down from the build-up of so much. But here, in this in-between state, is neither the time nor place — it has no time and has no place. It is a reprieve. A distancing.
Maybe that’s what’s comforting about it. Emotional and physical distance, manifest. See me as I disappear.