Floating

I am no longer sure who I am.

I am an amoeba, floating in a vast ocean of mood music and fragments of chatter, held, trapped in metal and concrete.

I appear to be in an airport. But if I was, surely I would care about where I am and what I am doing here?

But I do not.

Here or there. Now or then. The why is meaningless. There must be a reason for my presence, but it is of no import. There are things to be done, places to go.

That is all.

I am surrounded, by people. Travellers, to guess. They look... and so do I. We wait. To be released, like spawn, condemned to float, alongside, but not with, the others.

Then we will go home, to spin the clatter into a thread, a tale, a story, one that our others will wish to hear.

And then it will be over.