I heard that time seems to warp in airports and stations
because our brains don’t see them as real places,
only temporary passages,
marked by their impermanence.
Inside their walls, reality is in transition,
the way dreams fade out into hazy mornings.

In this drowsiness, I am transported.

Outside the window
emerald hills and dusky clouds
glittering with gold and silver
tumble behind with alarming speed
as if propelled into motion by
the strongest of forces
and concrete blocks scratch the sky
held too high by thousands of suits
and i wonder if it hurts to run
bearing such heaviness on their shoulders
but when one falls a newer one comes
with more energy and faster feet
and they run and run and run
as if trying to escape —
but from what, and to where?

I keep projecting forwards.
My body starts to ache.

I am still in transit.

From my carriage I wonder again,
Will they arrive before me?

A flutter of white against stained-oak desk
laying in wait, it anticipates
the first mark on blank surface
dots, loops, lines, inscribed representations
to illustrate unseen curiosities
to anchor their essence into the visible
for you and I to perceive.

I reside at the In-Between,
Just like the hyphen
joining those two words,
A silent flatline
in the midst of two worlds.

Nobody chooses In-Between,
Its vague monotony
is too loud to bear,
Each passing minute
confusing and yet, bare.

The frustration of In-Between
is knowing I’m the bridge
connecting them as one,
and longing to be both
but belonging to none.

My words are borrowed,
From the tongues of those
Who stole our freedom.

Yet now I use them,
For my expression
In the name of —

Liberation.