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{stranded in atlanta} brianna martray (this is intimate.) Stranded in Atlanta. Well. I've got all night. I suppose I might write a fairly decent novel in that time. There was a man too short for his stature, next to me, at the gate wishing for the same flight to Denver, the flight we were both supposed to be on the very minute we met. We were defeated but slightly amused in the way people are when they've been through worse and come out the other side alright. The airport was a swarm of bees at their worst, all searching for something to sting out of an unrealized want for the honey called home. A man, this man, had his legs blown off, no doubt, in a war that never should've been fought, and is still busy overseas and out of sight with fighting. We missed the same flight for nearly the same reasons, but he got a free hotel room and I did not because I can walk faster than him. Which is fair. He should get a free five star hotel every night for the rest of his life with chocolates and bouquets of the most extravagant and expensive flowers on his pillow. Daily, he should be provided with absolutely everything his heart desires, whether it be the simple and serene sound of the ocean or the smell of his wife when she’s turned on--the world should bow at his feet for him having lost them in vain. For someone else's vanity; convenience. And if, perhaps, all the pampering insults him and reminds him of his perils, he should be neglected. Whatever it is that he wants, we as a whole, as a world, as a civilization, a community, should be down on bended knee, walking on coals to provide for him. Because he stood up and walked forward and lost limbs so we would not. Because someone told him we would if he didn't. So he did. And he smiles at missing a flight like it doesn't matter if he lost limbs over a lie. Because he provided for us a luxury of freedom we think we deserve and therefore rise to fight anything anyone tells us might be threatening that so-called freedom, whether or not they are lying to us. We are blind. And deaf and dumb. We are sheep and we do what we are told, even if it means we will have no legs for the rest of our lives. Later, after wandering around for an hour and ending up at the only airport bar still serving drinks at this hour, a stranger who is not so strange is sitting next to me, drinking a Long Island Ice Tea much faster than I would have. A stranger, this stranger, who never gave me his name but agreed whole heartedly with me--every moment of our lives we create by the choices we make and the universe has keen ears and listens very well when you pay attention to your heart and take action in that direction. Years and miles and lifetimes separate us but we shook hands and he winked at me while a tired young girl examined her belly button as if noticing it for the first time and I knew right there and then without knowing his name that we had a connection that was beyond this skin or this dimension and would last a lifetime whether or not we ever laid eyes on each others faces again. He rode bulls for a living because he loved it. He ate pork and beans on the side of the road in broken down truck after broken down truck but he looks like a movie star, young for his age, eyes joyous with gazing at a world he loves because he so carefully built his life up around him with only his favorite size, color and shaped Legos. His heart was satisfied and smiling oceans. He stood under the sun in the exact spot he wanted to and yearned for nothing more than what he had. The sky opened up because the universe noticed him listening to its tides and provided an abundance beyond measure as his reward for standing still as a child long enough to hear the careful instructions of his heart and study with scrutiny the cryptic coding of his dreams. He is beautiful and so am I and so are you. Believe this and watch where it lands you. Beyond a promotion to a new map of the world. An atlas designed by your unspoken secrets of desire. Watch. It's all here for you, just waiting for you to reach for it. And I am the last one left at the bar. My final drink was free because no one wants to disturb a writer while they're writing. What if War and Peace was interrupted and therefore never completed--cancelled and deleted out of distraction because small talk pretends to be enticing and nagging bills always beg to be paid? Right. No one dares to disturb the look of the possessed and true, honest writing is always a state of possession. It is a powerful energy aglow with fizzle and buzz enough to knock New York City into a blackout, but like the strength of a bone, still hollow in the center. Which allows the movement, the fluid of creativity and words to pour through. It is the subway that allows a world to function, run smoothly, cover ground without noticing, bending or breaking. It is strongest at its most empty, most hollow, most giving moment. It is open space and sturdy listening. It is beautiful and so am I and so are you. I promise you. Go home. Set me down. For a moment, one moment a day, a long coming moment that should be far from fleeting and insignificant, appreciate yourself. I beg you. Go. Now. Learn to love the only person who will ever truly make you happy. (do i really love myself as much as i can?) ((do you?)) |
