Free Write

For my 3rd hour creative writing class. Was due on Friday Feb 1st, 2008.

      The bustle of a crowd along the much-traveled carpet. The scent of neutrality that is brought when plastics and perfumes, ties and t-shirts, cats and carpeting, tickets and toilet training 3-year-olds, all mingle in the same area, all in the same, dense, stress filled bucket of disgusting air. This is my every weekend, my escape to the extraordinary. This is my home, my home away from home, my finger and my footprints, the only thing I know for 2 hours waiting to get there and a short, slow walk to get out, and get back to the normality of my everyday. Escape, this is my escape to the deep, low, pounding feeling that I expect before my ascent toward the charming, yet so false life that awaits me upon the screech of tire and air against the pavement.
      "May I see your I.D.?"
      "Huh? Oh yea...sure," I say when I realize that somebody is talking to me as I stand in front of a shining screen, apparently done with my check-in. I rummage through my purse and pull out that God forsaken, government issued, nation identification. The tapping of the lady's shoe pounds in my head like an offbeat heart until I finally hand her the item that she had requested from me with such haste and disregard.
      "Alright then, here are your tickets and baggage claim studs. Gate 10," says the lady. I am again enveloped in the blurry bustle of the crowd. The cold and mindless stares of adults attempting to escape from their lies, just as I had attempted to escape so many times before, they are are clad in diaper bags and little hands, never again able to escape this way. The little arms cling to legs, the little bodies sleep in plush, and the little mouths cry lime the devil had asked them to punish themselves for throwing their carrots on the floor.
      I'm not a terrorist, but you believe I am, you put men and women to search in canvas, leather, plastics, skin and care seat. I stare into the abyss of a man who doesn't care anymore, who tells me to step through that void into the surreal, and doesn't take a second look at me. I am dangerous, I promise, check me. Freckled, hazel eyes beg him, but he just moves on to the next person waiting to escape, unaware of any danger that might be posed by this petite, Hollister clad, senior in high school.
      The reason why I am dangerous? Simply, I'm a danger to myself I put myself through the motions every weekend, every walk to the counter, every ticket, every inch of myself being rejected for inspection of the threats I could pose. Yet, they do not see it, no matter how many times they check me. They do not see this ticket is why I am so dangerous, this escape is a danger to me. I am a liar, I am a thief of my own person. Stolen, every inc h my sanity has been stolen in the take offs, the beer fart seats, the repetition of wails and pee breaks, the landings when I finally arrive at this place where I live a second life.
      Maybe if I stay this time, no longer taking off and landing, I could rebuild myself.