It was the late night hour, on the outskirts of a sprawling South Chinese city. One of those cities whose silver skyscrapers and economic triumphs inspire films and fuel articles. We were like ants, trapped within one of the airport building's glass chambers, ensnared by the crystalline octopus, suspended in the valley between the moist breath of the sea and the salt, having lost ourselves amidst the boundless metropolis.
Rain fell outside. Taut, oily streams of water flowed relentlessly down the wide panoramic windows, whimsically refracting the contours of rounded airplane heads, resembling the graceful curves of dolphins, while shattering the twinkling reflections of the lanterns. Amidst the interplay of light and reflections, I felt strangely suspended, caught between reality and dream. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I had slept less than an hour in the past day, and scarcely eaten anything. Or perhaps it was the rain, the airport's clamorous symphony of disjointed sounds, and the kaleidoscope of blurred faces of strangers.
I found myself reclining on a meticulously crafted, nickel-plated bench for departing passengers, slightly contorted, attempting to press the right side of my lower back as firmly as possible against the rigid curve of the polished steel armrest. The strained area of my back crackled with tension and burned with glowing embers. I must have looked rather absurd in this posture. I contemplated straightening up to assume a more presentable appearance, but upon surveying my surroundings, I realized that I blended seamlessly with the other passengers, equally fatigued and drowsy, munching on food from boxes, yawning with stale breath, and sleeping with fish-like mouths agape in awkward positions, having cast aside decorum and manners under the weight of the protracted journey.
Once again, I glanced upward at the gray disc of the clock on the ceiling. The minute hand sluggishly crawled past the zenith of twelve and barely glided towards the abyss, aiming for the number six. I had checked the time less than a minute ago, but I had already forgotten. As always... Over two hours remained until the repeatedly delayed boarding would commence. I needed to occupy myself. Urgently. Before the vacuum that had formed in my mind would be filled with unpleasant thoughts. Toxic thoughts. I could sense their approach. They were already thickening at the periphery of my consciousness, advancing and seeping through the crevices. Vile and cunning, they always bided their time, waiting for the moment when I would be defenseless, alone with myself, just like now, trapped idly in interminable waiting.
And what kind of thoughts were they? Utter foolishness and banality. The standard midlife crisis. Reflections that first visit people who have barely traversed the years of rosy youth on life's path. Somewhere around the threshold of thirty, when the body first betrays you with its initial afflictions, and you, with horror, realize that you won't live forever, that you are finite. Just like everything else... Suddenly, existence becomes unpleasantly and ruthlessly sharp, devoid of the comforting blurriness of illusions that lie ahead. It's the damned time of maturity. You come to understand that you will never become a rock star. Or a celebrated athlete. Or a great entrepreneur. You've long been like a visitor at a bazaar. You've wandered around, turned in circles, and now you're heading towards the exit, yielding your place to the newly arrived youth. Through the back gates, you catch a glimpse of the dreary road from the bazaar, filled with moans and old folks. Soon, you will follow in their footsteps. Stop! Enough! Didn't I say so? One must be cautious with such thoughts. You won't notice when you fall prey to them. Just a slight relaxation and loss of control, and they will fill you with thick, viscous darkness, engulfing you completely, leaving you in an entirely unpleasant place, where you look around with eyes darkened by cosmic sorrow, perceiving only transience, aging, and decay. It is not worth indulging in such pursuits. It is foolish and unproductive. And, in general, it turns you into a melancholic fool.
I need to occupy myself. For two hours or so. Here's the challenge... They say the truth is revealed on the Discovery Channel. Time is elastic. There are moments of joy, love, and euphoria that pass through you like sunlit rabbits. They were with you, and in an instant, they're gone. Impossible to grasp, savor, or even realize that you're experiencing these happy moments, feeling content. But those same minutes of idleness, routine, or loneliness are completely different. It's as if you're sitting deep in a foul-smelling puddle, permeating to the cellular depth of your doomed body with each second of dreary existence. It's deeply hurtful and unjust...
