Carry-on

Sleep-laden eyelids. Eyeballs covered with the thick sticky syrup of lethargy...itching. The vulgar yellow light panels at the airport signposted a labyrinth of lies. They promised you a homecoming but took you to...the baggage hall.

Sleepwalkers, just like you, are trapped in this upside-down, this detention limbo of almost-home-but-not-there-yet. You count the disconnected pairs of itchy eyes, evacuated by the flicker of life, transfixed on a perpetually revolving empty belt. The conveyer of your belongings. A carousel of the no-fun kind, no frills, no golden horses and fairies, only steel and black rubber. Welcome to the longest minute sequence of your life. It is past midnight and your very last train is departing soon.

But wait...the PVC slash curtains are now bulging with suspense and the flicker of life graces your itchy eyes again. One by one, the bags of your fellow sleepwalkers appear on the carousel, like stage-fright ridden members of a rock band after a dramatic intro. Here is the drummer, the guitarist, the (could it be?) bagpipe player, followed by a tedious array of insignificant instrumentalists. And finally she enters the stage wrapped in a glittery cloud, the lead singer, the prima donna, your very own carry-on. You rush to collect her. She feels good. Her handle pulls up smoothly. Her wheels make the sweetest sound. And you know what, the night is oh-so-young. There are taxis and uber vehicles and buses begging to carry you on. You, my friend, will be home soon.

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