I sit alone by the self-serve bar and keep precious watch over tiny plastic cups and apple juice. I close the blinds and curtains, as if to wrap the night around me, to surround myself with something to keep me warm. Ma niente puo caldarmi, solo lei.
So I sit quietly and wrap myself in thoughts, and I am warm. Far from the sleeping Chinese circus that lives just behind the polyblend curtains; the booby traps of stray slippers and empty cups of green tea. Non importa, I could be anywhere. Surely I am dreaming. If not I would be constructing entire nations, moats with no drawbridge and walls that disappear into the sky, -so terrified I should be of something that does this to me, leaves my armour in a puddle. But I am calm, India calm.
These tiny moments of sterile purgatory. Every surge stronger, the slower I breathe. Every nuance. And as much as I love being drowned in the pool, these mirrored compartments nourish me, spoon feeding my fire with alcohol and gasoline. Here between plastic walls, metal boxes. Here 350,000 feet in the air, with dry hands and spinning head, small and finite, but how infinite, how eternal this tiny life feels.
These moments. Maybe if we wrap ourselves in them and in eachother, we will live forever. Maybe that’s the secret.
