There is no graceful way to spend hours in the airport by yourself. After a few laps back and forth the international terminal, during which you've exhausted inspections of every souvenir in every store and also reek of every sample perfume in the duty free store, you finally are left only with your thoughts. Travel seems to be the final frontier of journaling, reading, true introspection- even if somewhat forced. 

The mountains keep me company as I float between types of consciousness- as does my ubiquitous pink daypack.

Inevitably I end up reading books or watching movies with sad or moving endings, and I feel like an animal in a glass cage as other passengers pass by my tear-streaked face.

Eventually your ass starts hurting from the hard chairs and it helps to change the scenery every now and then. I laugh with K over skype that now I know how Tom Hanks feels in that movie where he lives in the airport. Only difference being, I would use sriracha on my saltines in lieu of ketchup.

I'm sinking into a deep brown couch right now. A full 24 hours has now passed in transit (transience). Silhouettes of waiting passengers are prominent against the window. The air here is thick with anticipation, of impatience, of weariness. I contemplate from a distance, choosing anticipation over the alternatives.