Departure lounges at Airports and waiting areas at Train stations are symbols of oppression. One has parted and suffered, one has to part and suffer and the neon bright luminosity of these places sticks its poison in the system. People, all different, rush in and through these mazes and brightness, there is incessant and loud chatter, suffocating the one, who arguably, more sensitive or less adaptable, sits in a corner, revisiting memories, imagining the profound faces of love or the dismal colors of seperation.
This lament, lament as it is, is not for the happy traveller. The happy traveller travels bound by nothing, surrounded by sun even in winter. He or she travels for something, aided by the false and unreal reality of all travel. This man gloats in the sophistication of modern travel, inspite of its suffocation. Since there is a place, and since men can fly, one must get there, though the place visited is the same as the previous place.
But I am talking about the person who is travelling inspite of himself, beside himself, because he has to. The only colours he sees are of seperation and parting, memory and desire. He has seen it before and will see it again. This searing pain and sometimes lack of it is cause for pain. He has left behind himself and others, himself in others and others in himself. He has done that before because he does not know anything besides that.
Then at night, and after break of day, once the traveller has deposited his mortal materials around himself, redecorated his so-called reason with the illusion of words and convinced himself that that parting was an illusion, he settles down with a pen and a blank sheet of paper. He must write something, to help him to help him. But the pen has broken, the ink has dried and the blank piece of paper is still blank.