At the Airport

Heartache had taken over my life. So I decided to hop in the car and drive around a city that had nothing left for me, listening to Bruce Springsteen’s The River at a volume that sounded like the E-Street Band was trying to shatter all of their instruments. My ears hurt and my heart hurt and nothing felt good so I drove and sang and cried and thought about everything that made me feel worse. Because thinking about things that are good when things aren’t is a surefire way to have all of your safe thoughts dragged into the street and shot dead.

I drove past the park my friends were married in that past summer. All the leaves were green then, and all the flowers were gorgeous, You were there too and I could picture you better than I could picture all the pretty plants, because life is cruel that way. Now it’s November, and all the flowers are dead, and all the leaves have fallen. So I drove on, because the sight of it all bruised me on the inside like someone swinging a dead cat full of pool balls inside the lightest rooms of my soul.

I ended up at one of those viewing areas where you could watch incoming airplanes land at Calgary International. I thought about going home, back to Victoria, but that’s where you were, and you were moving on, and it was easier to think about you moving on when I could think about all the other places in the world that airplanes landed.

I sat in the car, and wondered if any of the other people here were thinking the same things I was. Were the airport viewing lots the heartbreak hotels of the on-the-way-home Calgary commuter? I told myself it was true, and then I felt a little less alone. Just me and Bruce Springsteen and the lonely hearts who all felt like their heads would clear for a fucking second if they could see a Delta Airlines flight headed for Paris shoot down the runway.

I told myself I was going to be okay, and at points, I even believed myself. It’s always been a dream of mine to be happy, ever since I turned 26 and suddenly wasn’t. But as my stereo co-pilot sang through blown speakers, is a dream a lie if it don’t come true, or is it something worse?

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s