Fly away

My life is like this. Airport to airport, and while you'd think the voices would become more familiar the more i heard them, the more languages my brain would be able to take in, the more i'd comprehend. But it's not like that. My mothertounge is as incomprehensible to me as the arabic i've spent ages reading, learning, internalizing, and i cannot seporate my cockney brothers from my dutch ones, or the rolling bergendese dialect that i myself have fallen into. It's all babel, all over, and i am but the silent observer suffering from jetlag to jetlag in delayed airports, fareports, and small gates to heaven. I've learnt to carry around these documents, only to read them over and realise that every airport, every journey has has happened too fast and my vast memory will serve me a documented truth, that i've been here before, done this before in endless countries and airports before. Yet i cannot sit still unless the plane is delayed.