When I’m at the airport, I sit and watch all the other people, and I think about if they’re thinking about me as much as I think about them. I contemplate their whole lives as we sit together at the gates - each of us minding our own business and sitting an appropriate number of chairs away from each other. These people are just as complicated as I am, and their lives are probably more webbed than mine with mutiny or love or secrets or regrets. Each piece of what they have carried to the airport says something about those hidden truths that we each try to hide behind our zoned boarding passes and slightly-too-big carry-ons.

Is that it—? Have we carried too much? Do we bring too much of ourselves with us wherever we go? Are we too afraid to leave some of ourselves behind in lieu of new adventures?

I think so. I think people like their rolling bags that drag behind them like all the dead weight of their lives because it makes them feel safe.

I’m tired of feeling safe.