[This post was written two days ago whilst chillaxing on a bench at a park near my apartment. It started with a memory and evolved into something like introspective wordplay. Not quite sure how the final result appears. You decide...]
I'm sitting on a bench in my apartment's neighborhood and out of nowhere, I can smell the ocean. I live in northeastern Indiana, so it's not like I'm anywhere near a significant body of water. I was dreaming about the ocean just the other day; perhaps this sensual anomaly is an answer to my prayers. I can almost taste the sea spray, hear the constant call of seabirds and children shrieking as they splash joyfully in the surf.
I miss traveling. The thrill that accompanies walking into an airport and inhaling the stale scent of leather luggage, constantly recycled air, and countless intermingled fast food restaurants. It is the scent of new books and magazines, freshly purchased for whatever journey their owner may be taking them on, combined with a million accompanying sounds -- countless backpacks and pocket-books and laptop cases zipping and unzipping in a neverending quest to retrieve boarding passes and passports and itineraries, bottle after bottle of overpriced soda releasing its carbonation in one swift burst; and of course, hundreds of voices chattering in excitement or questioning destinations in hushed tones or assuaging young fears. The cacophony of such a place has always been soothing to me, a gypsy at heart.
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