You shouldn’t make friends at the airport, for the airport is a place for strangers. No one is ever really there. No one but the coffee shop baristas and the homeless and the TSA agent standing at the KCM desk. The nameless everyone we all silently agreed don’t exist when we’re not looking at them. The voiceless shadows cropped out of your snapchat stories.
Identities in perpetual transition,
Swapping ceaselessly between captions and filters.
You also shouldn’t make memories at the airport, for memories are real and the airport imagined. It takes up a peculiar non-space in the world. No one is there to be there. It is the place between places they want to be. The over between mind and matter. Their unblinking eyes on the departure screens, their unblinking minds on destinations. Memories are infinite, never to rust, never to expire. But airports? The beginning and end are always explicit.
The unskippable ad between the playing of memories.
And you especially shouldn’t fall in love at the airport, for love is a product of passion and the airport is a product of practicality. Convenience over quality in its basest form. You are better off falling in love at the orgy. To fuck off and fuck on and fuck off again. To fuck around all you want without ever finding out. Without ever being found out. Without ever being anything. The airport is the crutch of a life unlived, a love unable to be made.
A place to arrive at and depart from.
A place to be left behind.
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