People at the Airport

I've always loved airports. 

Not for the long lines and dirty bathrooms or for the idea of being locked into a small space for hours at a time in the most comfortable seats imaginable. It isn't for the smell of body odor or the security screenings. 

What I love about airports is the transparent nature of the people who step across the sliding glass doors. 

The way people interact in airports is always predictable. 

At airports you always know what to expect:

The people are always coming or going.

There are always tears. 

There are the tears of loved ones saying a somber goodbye; there are the tears of bliss as arms stretch toward arms of the people who have finally made their way home after what seems like an eternity.

But of the entire array of people in airports the most transparent are the children.

There are two very distinct types:

There are ones running around with an inability to sit still because their excitement is bubbling over. They are the ones who view airports as a magical portal that will take them on new adventures in strange new places. They revel in the idea of something wonderful happening in the vast unknown.

The other children are ones who adhere to their parent's leg, cautiously keeping their watchful eye on every stranger that walks past. To them the unknown is scary and dangerous, full of nightmares. They depict airports as what tear them apart from the same, familiarity that they desperately cling to. Those children grow up to view airports in the same way they always have. There are still the men and women who jump for joy as their plane is finally being boarded. There are still the businessmen with sour looks across their faces because they would rather be back in the office they know. 

Airports are this magical land where façades are broken and people come alive. And not always for the best. And I have always been the one to watch and observe the actions of others.

But yesterday, I am fairly certain the people in the airport were watching me.

I could feel their eyes on me in the moment I just wanted to escape from the world.

Honestly, I still want to escape from the world.

To be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The problem was, even though I was escaping my physical tormenters, I was unable to shake the  mental.

So I sat in the airport, fully aware of the eyes on me, wondering what I would think if the rolls were reversed.

Because I would surely notice. I would try to tear my eyes away, but I know I would've been unsuccessful. So I cannot in any way blame those who also could not.

Plus I was giving them quite a show:

Tears were streaming down my face

My body shaking with my silent sobs

Blue notebook in my hand

pen fervently moving across the page.

Writing things I can't quite post yet.

Things I am not ready to face.

Things that keep me awake at night 

and haunt my idle thoughts.

They are my constant nightmares.

The shadow trailing behind me, never allowing for a moment of release.

Not giving me the chance to breathe free of the weight that stifles me.

There is no respite from my pain.

And there is no tearing away your eyes from a sobbing girl in the middle of an airport.