On airports
On airports
I’m in a world of Vichy, Erborian, Chanel, Victoria’s Secret, Dior, Valentino.
I’m in a world that doesn’t exist, a world people built to create the illusion of being somewhere, when in fact, you’re nowhere.
After several security checks, they stamped my passport to show I’m leaving the country. Yet, even after the stamp, I’m still in it. But somehow, it already feels like I’m not. If I had to name Schrödinger’s cat’s box, I’d call it “the airport.”
I adore airports, I can’t help it. It’s the perfect place for me, someone who doesn’t want to be anywhere yet wants to be everywhere at once.
I’m drawn to the idea of a world without states or borders, without concepts like “statehood,” “national interests,” or “defending the state.”
I'm sleep deprived. I close my eyes and imagine a time when someone might ask me what an army is, and wonder in disbelief that people in power were once so foolish.
"Did they really follow the logic of 12-year-olds “the strongest one is right”? "
I imagine how puzzled children of the future will be.