My favourite thing about airports is that they exist outside of time as we know it.
People are coming and going in all directions, each one occupying a different space in time. Some are fully immersed in the local hours. Others have already set their watches in anticipation of where they are going to end up.
But we all come together in this strange, transient limbo to hang in a timeless moment, beyond the rules of space and time. Simultaneously together in this joined experience and comfortably alone.
Though I emote intensely and often, I find that my emotions run particularly freely here. As if I’m both moving forward and sitting comfortably in place, the contradictory forces of this border world always pull me wide open and turn me into a conduit of creativity and feeling.
My journal entries are the most deep-reaching and profound. The stories written from my perch at an airport bar, sandwiched between strangers with my ritualistic pint within reach are some of my best works. The tales I observe and absorb from the people around me in those moments are amongst the best in my collection.
It’s in this curious fringe world that I often feel the most at home. Free to laugh aloud, cry with quiet abandon, and explore these intense feelings without shame or fear of judgement.
In the years since we first met, Charles de Gaulle has held me particularly tight while I cry pools of crocodile tears into my notebooks.
The impetus for this overwhelming sensation has changed with each occasion, but this magic of this place never fails to overtake me. And today, like every time before, my tears are swollen with love and gratitude.
This time, I am processing renewed love and unassuming passion, as well as the sorrow of parting anew with a heart gonflé with fresh love and old comforts.
This time, I speak of both the city and the girl that the universe has graciously gifted to me time and time again.
This time, I find myself the doubtful protagonist of a romance novel that is so painfully cliché I can’t help but fall in love with that too.
I’m not sure what to make of all of this. I feel compelled to write, but I’m nowhere near finding the words to describe these unexpected, rather unfamiliar yet deeply nostlagic feelings.
While I sit here pouring liquid gratitude into the cracks between my keys, the airport around me is waking up. The black sky is now pink with morning blush, more groggy faces have joined me, the shops have begun to open, the cafe is brewing its first coffees — everything to suggest that time has passed since I first sat down in this old purple chair.
But I’m still enjoying the same moment I arrived in; still somewhere between the blackened early hours of a day that will last forever, wrapped in the loving embrace of the inherently Parisian magic moving through her, through us, my hair twined around her fingers, her heart pressing back into my lips. That powerful feminine energy that has been keeping me safe and warm, independent and strong since the first fateful, timeless encounter.
It’s the absence of time in this in-between place that allows me this luxury. And as long as I sit here, I luxuriate in it forever.