Conversations at Airports (03 - 15 - 11)

Time is warped in airports; the hours drag on but seem to have no chronological order. At first all is normal, but by the time the third hour rolls by memory black outs begin. A nagging feeling in the back of your mind says you shouldn't lay on the floor; someone might rob you, how odd you will look, and so on – but sleep deprivation whispers sweet security in your ears. Michael and I choose a snug corner in the San Antonio airport next to a horde of teenage girls, they're loud – but we don't mind. A blink later and they're replaced by 40 army men.

Several blinks later I catch my stand by flight to Atlanta, leaving Michael behind. Atlanta is a kind airport to smokers and a cruel mistress to broke alcoholics. Sojourn is the best place to go if you've got hours to kill, weather your a smoker or not do yourself a favor; pull a chair in its smoking section and start a conversation with the first lonely person you make eye contact with (of which there always is).

Once, on my way to Germany, I spoke to a military vet on his way back from leave, throwing out small talk as a reel to catch him in an honest mood that airport anonymity provides.

“So are you excited to get some time off?”

“Not in the slightest,” I hook me a live one, “My girlfriend is actually cheating on me with my best friend – and hey – I understand, I really do. Long distance relationships are hard, generally people are in relationships because they can't stand loneliness. I could even understand why she wouldn't feel sorry, after all, it was my choice to leave her – so yeah I can see her being angry. But my best friend? That's two back stabs with one action, and worse of all, she's being a malicious bitch about it; throwing my clothes out in the streets and sending me hate mail.”

“Ouch, kick a man on the ground why don't ya.”

“And spit and piss on him. I'm a pretty reasonable guy and I pay her as much attention as possible. What can you do though; no matter how hard you try reality and her rules will always win out.”

Silence envelopes us: We blow smoke straight up and meditate on its curls. I implore further “So what are you going to do?”

“Well I'm going to get what shit I have left and beat her.” The military man said it so smooth and nonchalant I was half way through nodding in agreance before I stopped shocked.

Though today's conversations are dry, I do find men to shoot the shit with over a whiskey on the rocks: Michael and I got separated in San Antonio, so any company is good company. One man tells me about how he had sneaked a bottle of whiskey on the airplane, and if one knows American airport security – one knows how ballsy that is – but after shining three fourths the bottle was eventually caught.

“You can't have that here sir.”

“No problem!” He gulps the remaining intoxication and finishes the bottle.

Reasons

Standing in my door's archway that marked the center of our hallway, I gave my room one last glance; the light ignored my blinds, shooting through the window and resting on a broken futon that was covered with clothes and white stains that contrasted the black material. I looked at my wall, covered with paintings from my brother's younger years that had survived under my wing, some childish and colorful – others refined with strong black lines that curved out a woman's face; souvenirs of my world travels, a Gothic Hello Kitty mask hung between two Japanese subway maps. I looked at my black shelves that were littered with badges of honor: a bottle filled with sand and ocean water from the Texas seas, a German bottle of liquor that a loving family had given me with a hint of tears lingering in the air. I paused for a moment, trying to take it all in; the smells, the sights, and the memories. Then I said goodbye.

Weeks before, out of foresight, I gathered my prized collection of books, flipping through their pages, reading personal notes written in the margins by a lost love and family members who have passed on, and sold them for petty cash. Moments afterward, I sat on the hood of my car staring at the city into the sunset that painted the background of Austin's few skyscrapers. I was smoking a cigarette purchased by said cash, exhaling deeply – every last ounce of air till my lungs shriveled up – in hopes that whatever longing I felt would escape with the smoke. The feeling returned when I closed my bedroom door for the last time and set fourth on the black sea that separated Austin and San Antonio.

It's a unique feeling, looking at your possessions – your past – and asking yourself what to leave behind. As if, without them there would be no proof of who you are or what you have accomplished. One would assume, like every other feeling in life, that with repetition its edge would be dulled until eventually the sadness would be a quick flash that reminded you of those youthful, emotional, days; but even on my third try – the third time I had spoken my fair wells to everything I owned – the sadness clung to me like an ex girlfriend, crying in my chest as I stroke her hair – bittersweet finality.

Friends assumed that I was a masochist when I shared my thoughts, though they were partially right, but I had reasons. The first time was when I signed up for the Navy, hoping to pursue the tastes of other cultures, foods, and women: I gave whatever I held dear away and shipped out to the cold winter of Chicago, and enjoyed every pin prick of icy wind. The second time was when I moved into independence a city away; scorned at a free woman whom was incapable of returning love, I said, “Fuck it – Why not move to a hip city?” and I was gone once more.

And now I had Mexico.

“Why the Hell Mexico?” Every right minded person asked me after they got off of their stable, well paid jobs.

“That's a philosophical question.” I'd reply to their bewildered faces before they rolled their eyes at another wild idea Kellan was having.

Several failed attempts at explanation – how I felt suicidal and with nothing to lose, why the Hell not – I gave up and decided to keep it simple, “I have no reason.”

“But it's dangerous right now! You might die!”

“And so too if I stay.”

One day I was driving through Austin's downtown, its streets a grid system where one had to chase green lights by slightly speeding, and enjoying the cool breeze a convertible allows. The Sun was almost gone, but its light faded to the sky's center. All of a sudden I realized I had been thinking about suicide for thirty minutes. And so too the next day, and the next, till finally I thought I might have a problem.

People assume depression is pure sadness, the kind portrayed by Hollywood, dead girlfriends and failed aspirations fueling self hate; but depressions is worse than that – it's less interesting – it's gray and gratuitous. You stare at a painting and you see only a cloth canvas, oils covering its surface, and a metal rim; but with depression everything is like that; love looks like two people attached to each other for selfish reasons; friendship is prolonged association; and yourself is another shape floating in space.

To define it is futile – it simply is. However to use it, to learn from it, to gain courage from it – that was enough delusion to add the color back into my life. Free from death's grasp I could do anything, and soon an opportunity presented itself; so I said why the Hell not.