Looking up.

Three hours, one hundred and eighty minutes, ten thousand and eight hundred seconds, and then I am there. I find loneliness, or familiarity, I sense coldness, or anticipation, I see hope, or regrets.

During the course of the journey, I often times dream, I listen to myself, and usually try to imagine with vivid images from my mind what would it be if… I had chosen different things.

There is nothing else I can do; I need to waste the time, with no more expectations than just keeping awake, alert and conscious.

I see the fields run vigorously in my eyes, giving me the perspective of being stationary in the quick vortex of my head, just when I feel I am getting lost and scared, the well defined chaos in which my ideas transform thanks to the mix of boredom, and tiredness take over, and just like that I hear myself.

I usually have music on, I pretend there’s nothing else to look forward than just the stories that are told by the sounds I hear. When the contemporary violins of “Bond” come in, I imagine it is me who plays energetically to the rhythm of the Romanian Rhapsody, and I have an audience who appreciates and admires with envy my unequivocal talent. Suddenly I have to join, and start singing the chorus of songs that I can’t even sing. If the music got muted, I would sound like a howling dog.

Then I start thinking too much… the one quality I can get to hate. I begin looking for answers to questions I shouldn’t be asking in the first place. I can sense that there’s nothing else in my spirit than the pure sensation of someone who looks at a plane go away with his desires inside, and he has been left behind.

I am here… present, going back and forward between my freedom and my jail. I can see and hate myself for hating. I punish my feelings, until I find self resignation.

I am here… left behind as I see the world turn and disappear right through the vision of my window.