Walls in airports are solemn. They charge on secrets that they’d not tell. They guard.
Outside you fly. Inside your feet are free to move. The pace is different. Some feet are running, some walking, some clicking the floor. There is scratching, talking, laughter, crying and shrieking. There are directions. There are gates. The is a way in and there is a way out.
You can lean against the wall and look for silence. Once and again you’d find it. Surprised, you would rise your eyes, and see figures that do not move.
They stood not far from me, but not as close. Two men. Dark coats. The same height, bold heads. Holding each other very tightly, they stood very still, cheeks touching in perpetual stillness. I watched them. “Did these two men cry, love, lived togehter? Did they just meet or do they move apart?”
The walls and I would not know. We let them stay. I stepped away and passed the secret to the wall.
In English, we’d say,” trust your gut“. In French the word is goût, it is spelt like “gut, only with an “o”. It means taste. It means passion. Trust your gut. Trust your passion? Gut and passion. It moves you forward. It is igniting!
Passion is an action. Passion is merciless. Passion is toxic. It is seductive, it flies you up the stairs when the odour of freshly brewed coffee intensely leads your nostrils up and up. Passion plays with delight. It adds the leathery foam to your coffee on the lips, it tickles your tongue. It lets the sensation of hot bitter liquid melt with the sweetness of the colder foam.
I would run-up. I would enter the door on the top floor. A warm coffee smell would blend with the floral freshness of the newly-cut tulips on the reception desk. Inside.
I would sip from a tiny espresso cup. I would carry a conversation, surrender my gut to the black liquid - soft on my tongue. Caramel espresso - “Le goût du risque. Passion for taking risks.
When satisfied, it exhausts. Its sweetness dissolves. I step down the staircase, away from the odour of coffee. The sharp, dry taste would cut my tongue and crave the simplicity of water. Outside I’d open my mouth and breathe cold air in.
“Who switches on the stars?“
“Ask grandpa” My boy replied
“My grandpa knows. He tried to die and went to sky, and he became a star.”
But would he know how stars turn on? How on the dark of night the bright spot tears through?
Ask grandpa. At night and he would return again as star.
Did someone ask the stars to be switched on? Who needs that light?
The dome turns black, the gems shine bright.
They cluster in the Milky way and die as dawn arrive.
Ask granpa, ask them all - why do they shine. And listen to the light.
It leads the way, it shines. The fears leave the night.
Then sun returns - stars shy away and die. Before the go they say, don’t worry I ‘ll come back tonight.
Who switches on the stars?
The grandpa knows, just listen - he will return at night.
Helena Magidas Johansen