airports and planes are places where you lose your life. from the moment you check-in, everything goes into suspended animation. time passes, but your life doesn't. life is recovered at the other end, leaving the airport, opening the key to your front door.
half-way over the atlantic has to be the place where your real life feels less attached to yourself. you are nothing but a ball of blood, tissue and bone, floating right above the cloud cover, anonymous, directionless.
only thing is you've got to shake that feeling, recover your soul. otherwise, you're stuck. numb. sleepwalking. empty. you look at your front door key and it doesn't make sense. you message your friends and they don't make sense. you sit in your sofa and it feels like an alien spaceship. you're in your house, but a million miles from home.
the exile's conundrum
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