I’m sitting at LAX. I missed my 6:25 flight to SFO so tomorrow morning at 6:30 I’m going to be on standby to get on that flight.
Suddenly I’m 11 again. I’m alone with a book and headphones. I have no friends, nobody is coming to pick me up and take me home where i have something to eat, where I can watch T.V. or take a nap on the sofa, where I can play with my toys (still alone but I can imagine I’m not). I’m sitting (or probably laying) anywhere it’s sunny cause I’m probably cold, reading a book. Back then it would have been Goosebumps, Babysitters Club or something in the magic/fantasy genre. Now it’s Chuck Palahniuk’s Choke.
Being here, alone, waiting, makes me feel vulnerable and small, like I was back then. I want to fold into myself and be left to my own devices. I wish I had a warm attic for a stormy evening, I’m thinking of The Neverending Story.
I know it probably sounds lonely and depressing, and it was actually, but now it’s comforting. It’s something I know and something that I know won’t change unless I want it to change. Waiting for something to come, either my dad or the end of my book.