Observations of a fragmented flight

He is back again to the east of his youth.. The giant hollow metallic bird landed at the end. It crossed endless miles, nine time zones, more than three dozen countries and culture, a barrier of languages, customs and stories.

The flight, one of those saturated with babies in diapers waiting to be changed in the bathroom. One of those flights that echo with the shouts and wails of youngsters craving attention or a candy. One of those flights were alcohol is consumed in abundance by those who are said to be religious.

One of those flights were flight hostesses strut in the aisles like models carrying the latest gadgets from Tokyo, the latest perfumes from Paris and the finest cigars from Cuba. A decadent capitalist flight.

A dog eared book ; Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar; a sordid tale about 6 months in a twenty something girl’s life in the Big Apple .. his only companion other than the unpleasant forced company of a chatterbox that took the form of an obese sweaty man that recited 400 words a minute.. a human miracle.

The food was mediocre at best.. bland, pre-packaged .. picked up from various international markets.. bite size food.. never finger food; enough to feel that you are chewing on a piece of processed meat or proteins.

Yet, he is home. Home is where the heart is or so they say.

He was away from home for years, by choice never by force. A solitary man up in the mountain of love , peace and understanding. A world of oneness .. a facade.. an escape from the horrors of reality, war, death and the big bad wolf.

It was a life secluded and delicate like a fine bone china teacup.. eternal and fragile. Life among books, letters, music and hope made him a hopeless case of a human being.. a chaotic romantic.. a cynic and a drunkard on the nectar of life.

Yet, here he is. Among the past. His favorite card in a tarot deck is death.. the call to cut those pieces in you that hinder progress.. that call you to play in the playgrounds of the past.. among the relics and ruins of childhood. How can he restrain from running into that?

The non smoking sign is still turned on. A large red sign staring at him from the ceiling. Agitations run in him.. shivers of withdrawal.

“Welcome home.” said the mass of fat sitting next to him.

“ Thanks. Same to you”.

The passengers are in line.. prisoners awaiting the call of freedom.. the cries of children, the sweat, the smell, humidity and the heat from the rubbing of bodies on starched carpet.

The line is moving slowly toward the exit.. slowly.. each step closer to the light.. closer to the ladder… away from any snakes. Smiles being exchanged among strangers.. brethren for a few hours.. strangers for eternity.

The light is just a few steps away.. one step closer to salvation among the heathens. The last farewell from oriental hostess.. a Greek plane captain.. his Scottish co-pilot that reminded him of Moby Dick.. and finally the exit.. five steel steps.. and a flood light on those steps.

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