Traveling Things

People do weird things in airports, like falling asleep fetal position next to a giant wall painted with David Copperfield's face. Or ordering a Stella Artois at the bar and staring at it for twenty minutes, only to take two sips and leave immediately after. They do things that make me sad and uncomfortable, like arguing and calling each other names — yes, you, old couple across from me, or drunkenly stumbling over to the flight attendant and demanding a seat upgrade. Sigh. There needs to be more love in the world.

I am sad. This couple is sad. I wonder if they are happy, and maybe just having an off night. She has a rose peeking out of her carry-on bag. Who gave you the rose, sad woman? Was it the man next to you? Was it someone else?

This is that one Hemingway quote.

I am a mess of lines strung together and knotted like the threads in that sweater you can't bear to give away.
You are the hopelessness I cling to, the wavering promise of "something" that eats away at me from time to time — sometimes you are also the reason I write.
So here's to the night,
To the mayhem and confusion of falling recklessly in love with life,
and the feeling of cigarette smoke wrapping around you like a blanket —
yes, sometimes we romanticize things that are bad for us.

This world is hope,
this world is brimming with uncertainty, failure,
and an undeniable good that makes all of us:
enjoy romantic comedies
laugh at our failures
save one another when we can't save ourselves —
I believe this comes from bigger things.

We are all so much smaller than we think,
and so much more than we will ever recognize.
Thankful for this Friday evening,
thankful for the night.

Here's to us.