This morning I'm taking off to a new place. Along with all the other people. People with the important jobs and cold hearts. Some running away. Leaving everything to find something new. Running away from the past that haunts them in their sleep. Ghosts with white smiles and pretty eyes coming over in the night. Spending nights and even days, with the inevitible conclusion that soon they won't leave.
Anyways, as people crowd around the room in which I sit, I observe. I observe the young man in front of me, with the tapping foot and the tired eyes. And as his foot taps faster and faster, his hand moves down the arm rest. His fingers start to move, as if he is counting. Counting what? I don't know. Maybe he is counting the days in which he is free from 'his' haunting past. Or maybe he is counting down the days or even minutes in which he will have his new beginning. Or perhaps he is just moving his fingers for the hell of it.
I watch the woman with a magazine open on her lap. Some sort of add for watches, or maybe some shoes in which no one can really afford. The add on the page to make people wish for a better life, where they can own everything on the page. Page 7 of People magazine. The magazine was laying open on her lap, though she wasn't noticing its presence. She was looking around as if she was waiting or even expecting someone to show up. Trying to force herself to look at the watches and shoes, wishing for a life of no worries. But it wasn't the watches or shoes that convinced her of the idea that she needs a new, worry-free life. It was the person missing. The person she was so anxiously looking for. Looking back and forth as her blonde hair flipped from side to side; and soon giving up. A look of hurt and disappointment as her flight was called. She collected her past along with her toiletries, and boarded the plane.
Then finally, the man that hit me the most. An older black man looking out the glass, watching the planes take off. His hair was grey and wrinkles covered his face. Marks on his forehead from thinking too hard throughout his life. His eyes were tired, and there was no emotion on is face as he stood completely still. The only thing moving was his mouth and maybe his eyes when it was necessary to blink, though I never saw his eyes move. That was just a guess.
Anyway, the man had no importance to me, but I could not stop watching him. I tried to make out was he was saying as he seemed to repeat something to himself quietly. The more I watched, the more I got a sense of the words being repeated. He was repeating "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry". He did not say this once or twice, but about forty-seven times. I thought to myself, who could he be sorry to. Maybe he was leaving someone who loved him and whom he loved. Or maybe he was sorry for himself. Sorry for the things he has done. For the people he has hurt. Or perhaps I was justing thinking to hard about it.
As they called my flight, I got on line. As I gave in my pass to fly to my escape, I looked one last time at the older man. He was looking at me and as my ticket got punched, I swear I thought he had said "stop running away when you're hurt".