Leaving the Sea

-The cold chill wind, the vacant dark of night and the sweat running along the length of my nose, each drop falling to the leather jacket I have on. I’m wearing layers and it’s not even snowing. The truth is, it’s not that cold, but I’m leaving. I’ve learned, when you leave from one place to another, you wear many layers. It gets hot, but if you’re going for comfort then you leave things behind. I’m lugging my life around in two suitcases, a camera bag and a back pack. It’s amazing how twenty four years fit in a finite space. I drag them all along, down the two blocks, the wheels squeaking. I drag my life to the corner, the one with the seven eleven. In Korea, it’s the guide post of civilization.
It’s two in the morning and two people pass me on the way, but they say nothing. I think it’s best because chances are I wouldn’t understand it if they did and I’m busy making sure no one sees me leaving. The walls have eyes and Korean bosses are different, they’ll sit in the corner just to make sure you went home. Now, I’m going home, and they’re not watching. I stand at the corner, worrying about my exposed position. At two in the morning in a city of 1.5, I ‘m the loudest thing as I spark a flame to calm my nerves. I see the cab I’m supposed to ride and put out the cigarette so I could put my life in the small Hyundai’s trunk. As soon as I do we speed off to the other side of town. A drive that seemed longer when I bought my ticket out of Korea. In the taxi, it collapses to ten minutes and I’m left at the bus station with hours to kill, my life in suitcases and a camera bag, smoking too much and wondering what life will bring.
I walk around and see a part of the city I hadn’t been exposed to before. I think maybe I would of liked to hang out here, but it’s too late, I’m on my way out. I leave my life by the bench, on the platform to Seoul. It’s a city of 1.5 and things hardly get stolen. When I return from my walk through the dormant buses, the gravel and the signs advertising Hof, I find my twenty four years packed neatly inside my luggage and I sit next to them on the bench, drifting in and out of sleep. And I can’t remember a single dream. Time passes. As I watch the handful of people, up at four, after my endless silence I long for small talk. Maybe if this were somewhere else, I think, as I sit somberly and watch the bus warming up.
The bus is warm, and the seat soft though uncomfortable, I tend to be a bit taller than average. I manage to sleep though and I don’t wake up until our last stop, five hours later. It’s amazing how much you can sleep, when you know you’re leaving. I didn’t even touch the valium, maybe later. There’s a certain feeling that comes over me as I roam around the airport, by myself. It’s the feeling of childhood. Like when I took the bus from LA to El Paso at the age of twelve. It’s funny that twelve years later, travelling alone feels the same.
Once I get to the terminal, I watch the planes landing and taking off for several hours before we actually board. Once we do, it’s not long before I can see the sea I’m leaving.