I have never met a good airport.

I have never met a bad one either.

An airport is a door.

Who stands in the doorway admiring the hinges?

Looking through my photographs, I realized something.

Even when I was standing inside the airport, I was looking out.

At the skyline.

At the mountains.

At the planes.

At whatever might be waiting beyond the glass.

I guess I’ve never been particularly interested in what I’m going through.

I’m interested in where I’m going.

We spend so much of our lives on our way somewhere.

But I am never truly in the waiting.

My mind has already left.

And I never arrived at the airport.