Bergen or bust

 At every airport I see shadows of myself in travels past–like fragments of my former self assaulting me at every corner. That very young girl looking at the magical birds out of the huge windows before they became mechanical creatures. The adolescent alone in the great halls, looking inside herself, staring blankly ahead at the impending freedom. The woman weary of travel and seriously overpacked. The mother desperately trying to soothe a young kid. 

They are all me. 

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