Lost in Transit

After a long flight, I landed in Istanbul.

It was a vast and luminous airport. My first flight had arrived on time, which meant I had some time to spend at the airport before my connecting flight boards.

It was my first time at this airport and I was mesmerized by its grandeur. I wandered around like a kid passing thru the duty-free stores, food halls, and different gates. Travelers moved past me in every direction – some in hurry, some lingering as if time didn’t exist.

The place felt alive and muted all at once.

After a while, I stopped by a small café to get some coffee and a baklava.

I sat on a table facing the vast Turkish land. It was a beautiful view. The sky looked like a canvas being painted in shades of orange, pink and violet. I couldn’t tell what time of the day it was. The long flight had scrambled my sense of time, and I had lost track of time zones.

Strangely, it felt nice. It felt nice to not know what time of the day it was – and I made no efforts to find out.

The weather was pleasant. The sun was either setting or about to rise. I couldn’t tell if it was dawn or dusk.

I saw a flock of birds flying out in the open sky – They were returning, or just getting started.

I was fascinated by this idea of being lost in time zone – to be lost in time and space. To not live your life tied to the hands of a clock for once. To pretend to be in a place where time does not exist.

It felt free, calm, and complete.

It had been over an hour. I had created an ambience of my own by now. An ambience that was beyond time zones or national boundaries. In that quiet solitude, in absolute solace, I realized something that had perhaps been at the forefront of my actions, but not at the forefront of my mind.

I realized how strong the desire to write was within me, and how natural it felt to sit down quietly in a café, lost in transit, and silently expressing what my heart felt on a piece of paper.

This desire to allow my heart to flow freely felt like a luxury. It gave me a sense of completeness. I couldn’t express the exact feeling precisely in words, and yet words were all I had.

I remembered Kafka’s phrase in this moment where he said, All language is but a poor translation.