When I was a child, I thought that the airport was a magical place to go. I remember being totally excited when my parents suggested that we go to the airport (I can’t remember why though) because that meant that I get to go out of the house. Also, the airport meant that I get to see aeroplanes and so many different kinds people. It was fun.
As I grew older, I realised that going to the airport meant that people were leaving me behind, to experience new things while I was stuck here with the same old stuff. My excitement became envy and I didn’t enjoy going to airport as much anymore. I didn’t like being left behind while other people went off and did more interesting things, different things. It burnt my gut.
Then when I hit my twenties, going to the airport took on a different feel; when my love hate relationship with the airport really began. Each trip to the airport meant either one of two emotions, unadulterated joy or heartbreaking sadness. Then there’s the separation anxiety. Don’t you hate being separated from your loved ones? But when they return, it’s like the best thing in the world. The joyful high I feel when they return is better than any sugar high I’ve ever had.
However, tomorrow would be another one of those sad moments of separation and I hate it. HATE IT! I hate being on two different continents, the stupid daylight savings hours difference but what choice is there. I just hope that the time will fly by and before I know it, it’s time to go to the airport for their return.