Several years ago, in an airport terminal, I sat in front of a wide, floor-to-ceiling window, waiting to board my flight. Outside, a murky fog had set in by that point in the evening, and for as far as I could see, the view was a dull mixture of greys—the concrete, the unsettlingly thick fog—broken only by eerie lights from planes and other vehicles on the tarmac.
But there was no airplane parked in front of the boarding gate, even though only half an hour remained until the “19:45” printed on my boarding pass. The staff at the gate, for some reason, had yet to announce anything, but by that point, I knew it was inevitable that the weather would delay the flight by at least an hour or so.
It seemed then that I would be stuck there for quite a while, deprived of anything interesting to keep me occupied, forced to keep looking up from my phone every few minutes, hoping—in vain—to see a plane pull up to the boarding gate so that I could finally be freed from my boredom and anxiety.
I recall that at one point, after I had just put away my phone to look into the distance, my mind began to wander into its own world, lulling me into an absent-minded stare.
In the background, the distant whirring of engines and clamour of voices echoed, but I suddenly heard nothing. I saw nothing. I lost touch with my senses as I delved into the world of my mind—a trance of sorts.
Imagination is a curious phenomenon. It is rarely the result of conscious thought. It’s more of a journey that the mind takes us on, which is outside of our control.
And so I imagined stepping on board the airplane, the environment that would surround me, with that strange smell that had greeted me before on previous flights. I would find my seat, 24F, right next to the window and ensconce myself securely into its cushions. Safety instructions. Seat belt and tray table. Taxi to the runway.
In my mind, the plane would take off with gentleness, effortlessly gliding through the sky—no turbulence or discomfort at all, just the sense of freedom from the restraints of gravity. I would look out the window at the now fogless city, with all its vibrant nighttime lights, saying goodbye, carrying with me the recollections of what I had experienced there. I would close my eyes and rest.
And in this vision, I would welcome the sense of anticipation for my arrival in Calgary, where I would once again become closely acquainted with my home and my bed. La fin. An idyllic conclusion to my journey.
Of course, this did not last. Without warning, some blurry object in my periphery jerked my mind awake and a dim reflection of myself appeared on the glass window.
I was still at the airport. Hundreds of other travelers surrounded me with their conversations and movements. The future I had pictured, without the constraints of the delays, discomfort, and troubles of the real world evaporated.
The reflection on the window was but a reminder of the world to which I belong—a world to which I was obliged to return from my mind’s wanderings.
And reality did inevitably return.
But on that gloomy day, while waiting for an airplane to arrive to take me home, I also resolved to never forget the moment of freedom for my mind, lest I lose sight of imagination.
