Being at an altitude of 30,000 ft., kicks the writer in me. Whatever little I am.
Yesterday, after a really long time I took an early morning flight back to the Okay city. & as they say about airports, I found myself amidst lot of stories. Stories with strangers, I’d like to put it. For once, being stuck in a long security queue at 5 AM didn’t really make me a cranky child. (Yes. I turned twenty six day before, but I’ll still be a mad child at forty. )
Well this story, it’s not a conversation.
There has been no exchange of pleasantries whatsoever. There is no judgment passed on it. It didn’t move mountains in my tiny heart. It didn’t make me giggle with funny thoughts. I didn’t cry feeling the pain. There were no secrets kept. There were no strings attached.
This story is a mere observation. It is a feeling of connection.
It is the eye contact with the boy in the blue shirt. It is the bitch face to the lady at the security check. It is the joy of seeing a 2 month baby struggling to open eyes. It is randomly meeting a friend who missed his flight. It is letting the gushes of pain in my heart reside. It is about the promises made to dad to listen to him.
It is about the disconnected connections made.
That’s about it.
I live on stories. I want to know the zillion thoughts in your head before you made that silly expression. I want to know the reason behind the never-let-go hug. I want to know why we made that eye contact. I want to know how long our story will be. ‘Cause, we all have stories.
Stranger, I want to know you.
One story at a time.