damask.

There is much to be said about airports. The slowest fast-paced place on Earth; the most conscious, undesired waiting space; the most trapping consumption-related enclosure. Cohesive ends to the endless spiral of still movement. Boring stuff. In airports, travelers walk and roll across tiling, carpets, and undefined lino. Some even roll before walking if they push a luggage cart, leaving their belongings ahead of their thoughts. There is one entrance gate, and another, and a security gate, and another, and a shop gate, then another. Going through an airport could only be about crossing gates. Can you keep track of how many gates you have crossed? That question does not bother with the necessity of an answer. In between gates, find a seat and all will be fine. Some place that is free, not right next to someone—especially not if they are eating something crispy that makes noise. Make sure to blow away the crumbs before putting down your rump, and to check for any potential chewing gum stuck on the side. Do not lay your jacket on the empty seat next to you; that is impolite. Instead, set your luggage a bit too far to the side, so the next unwanted visitor chooses another seat. Have you thought about the good deals you might find at duty-free? Have you checked out the shelves? Have you looked—from a distance, not too obviously—at the prices you could compare with what is available in your own country? You don’t remember—you can’t remember—whether your lipstick was cheaper at the grocery store, so you check online. It shows that, yes, maybe it is cheaper, but in some places also more expensive. And here you are, waiting in the enclosure. You can’t make a decision, so you buy it impulsively. You will always make use of this lipstick, anyways. Do you want to bother shopping with a heavy rolling suitcase as your only companion? Maybe not. Just go to the Starbucks two blocks away. Coffee is always a suitable travelling option. Perhaps you will also get a muffin, for what the waiting is worth. I am not criticizing you, no I am not. How do you think? I’m just looking at you, at all of you. At her, at him, at them. It is merely a conversation, so do not get offended. I am also waiting. I also bought a coffee, a lip balm, and a bottle of water because I could not find any of the hidden water fountains. And even if I have plenty of time, I am still pressured by it, just like you. Because nowadays, flights might start boarding five or forty-five minutes before takeoff. It is never the same time as what it says on the boarding pass. So I check my watch. I still have a watch. My neighbor has an Apple Watch, so they do not read time; it is read to them. Do you sometimes find yourself lingering a bit too long, deciphering a clock’s fingers? You simply lost the habit of reading. I have not opened a book either; I can just scroll on my phone. Let’s clear out our emails before we jump on this flight, because there will not be any Wi-Fi for a couple of hours. We also make sure to download enough music. Can you know in advance what piece of music will suit your mood during the trip?

But all of these thoughts are bullshit. You and I know this. You know the real fun is to sit there, in this departure hall. Closely packed together, we can just watch. Watch what? Do you watch anything? I don’t mean a movie! No, I mean just watch. Isn’t JustWatch the name of a free streaming platform or something? It’s been a long time since I watched a streamed movie; I’m too established now so I have subscriptions. This show, though, is free. Free of space, time, and money. Because you just sit and watch, and because the players here are not even playing, it does not even feel like you are wasting your time.

Up there in this hall, there is a large red carpet reflected in the gridded glass panels. And browns, a lot of browns. Browns of coats, browns of bags, browns of suitcases, browns of shoes, and of coiffed heads. On the ceiling, these glass tiles seem to try to gather all these anonymous figures into multiple small doubled reflections. It shows a bit more as night falls. If you look together with me, we see too much blur to make out any outline there. But the silhouettes of those who are waiting sink into this shimmering evening depth.

Somewhere just above us, you see this white oval, a small face suspended in the glistening mirror. It must be mine, or yours. Now, check out your face. Earlier, in the restrooms, you did not dare to do so, because there were too many people around, and you thought you might have a piece of spinach stuck between your front teeth. You didn’t want to be seen scratching it off with your nail, did you? It is also dirty to wash your hands next to twenty other people shamelessly splashing water around. And you thought about the soap dispensers, how many people had pressed—one, two, three of them—to find a precious last drop of soap that was missing. How the water flew too hard onto everyone’s hands and splattered all over the mirrors. That is also a reason you did not want to get too close to this public and exposed mirror. It smells like eternally damp hand dryers in airport toilets. So you left as quickly as possible, dragging your luggage, your bag and coat hanging from the wobbly handle. It is not made to carry that much weight, you know it, but still you hang your necessities there. I do the same, and it is okay.

So tell me, besides your face, what is there to see in this reflection? It is an airport departure hall. I see a wonderfully unnoticed tableau. I see coats, jackets, and scarves becoming garments of a mottled tapestry. I see screen flashes reflected in the vault, splendid rays of mass digital entertainment. Those that prick, those that cross, those that thread through all minds here. I am asking you: can you imagine the reflection of these screen lights on the downward-looking faces of their screeners? Not important. The frozen mass of waiting bodies barely moves. Oh yes, there are gestures. A hand that reaches out to grab a pack of crisps, a couple of children melting onto the floor from their seats, some passers-by on wheels shooting straight ahead, simply looking for a better seat.

You see, that is why I wish to remain in my own pale light, encircled and almost invisible. Hairless of thoughts! I wish to remain as white as white, as white as white can be. So no one sees me, ever again. No one knows what I am eating, no one knows what I am reading, no one knows what I look like. May they not check my passport. May they only look at my name on their screen, and please, do not compare the photo. Not even for a second. No one looks like themselves, anyway. This small face printed on my biometric paper does not mean anything, least of all my identity. The closer it gets to its expiry date, the less familiar my passport feels. For my own sake. The only me now—or the only you, if you are still there—is this form clearly defined up there, sharp as an incomplete moon spreading from the tip of a finger across a navy-blue night.

And you know what this reminds me of? Another evening, years before, on the way to another airport. I was observing the vault of an Italian sky through the car window. It was wide open to the stars. Somehow I saw the same grid, astral yet just as glossy. That day, the skylight was so beautiful that it made me nauseous. That day, I was not addressing anyone like I am addressing you now. I was only addressing time. If that is possible. I forgave it for its mistakes. Are you saying that time makes no mistakes? Oh yes, it does. Time slips by, it delights in the grace of its arrangements, it mocks me when I look up at skies and their stars. Time shows us that there will not always be these small faces reflected—yours or mine, all confounded. Time briefly drafts white ovals in the sky’s reflection, and it knows. It knows that stars rise and fall. It knows we are just passengers waiting for a plane, whether we board in five minutes or fifty-five years.

Flight departures:

11:30 Berlin

12:45 Kiev

14:10 Hong Kong

15:20 Dakar

15:50 Nairobi

16:30 New York

Through anyone checking the clock—wretched translation of its deeds—time plays indeed its greatest mistakes. A clock’s finger trades a wink with the clouds, reminding us that you and I are just small dark-brown commas submitted to their grip. It waves to those who know which colors will be given to our own times. Those to which we think we belong. And that evening, under this Italian sky pricked with stars, I wished to know more. As knowledgeable clouds trace shapes in the sky, I wanted to design forms born within thought. Some words might grow too fiercely, like branches overwatered in greenery. But my words became mirages to be grasped in the evening, when everything had settled back down, when time, like a cloak, had circled around my shoulders and wrapped me in its spell.

To you: it is merely a chalky wax head reflected on the surface.