There’s a type of loneliness that only exists in the departure lounges of small town airports. Early in morning, pre-dawn, with my coffee too sweet, I am embraced by the currents of recycled air. Young women near me are writing in their journals in ink and it seems so hopeful somehow like looking out the window in the winter at an unbroken expanse of snow. Maybe the snow goes on forever. Even the sky is white. Maybe this is some sort of eternity, maybe I’ve lost my mind. It’s the recycled air that drives me to this type of ruminative state. At least that’s what I tell myself, though I have enough experience to know that this simply isn’t true. It’s much more likely that I am uncomfortable with the pedestrian nature of this artificial environment. People are scattered across this room, sitting with their luggage, reading some garbage novel or listlessly thumbing at the phones, waiting, killing time, worrying about what might be waiting for them at the other end. It’s usually nothing. A taxi home, chatting with the driver about the traffic, detours, updates from city hall. The driver zooms through strange neighbourhoods past empty parks, ball diamonds abandoned for the season.| image by #michaelkenna via @artcube