I am sick of these metaphors. It’s 5 am, my god fate, do I have to give everything an aesthetic, hm?
I am leaning onto my bookbag on the Airtrain between terminals. The plane slid in Newark by dark, but now dawn is rising for me a second time today. On the horizon, the New York skyline rises, too, like in all its fictions. The Empire State Building pierces the exact middle of the generating sun, as if its syringe tip is coloring the sky’s pink and orange tissue. I have never been to New York. From this distance, it looks like Delhi, or Delhi looks like it. I don’t know if the haze is morning fog or constant pollution. A highway slits the metaphors lower half – it is busy already at this hour.
I guess the literary world is trying to tell me something about my arrival with this image, about my inevitable new dawn of life after such an incredible trip. The scene longs, lingers, yearns to become bad poetry. But the image is like morphine on my own culture. Culture shock, that is, and the pain of trying to sleep upright for half a day and too many security checks and the loud, white everyone everywhere in this passport place. I slump against my backpack even more and turn away from the shining scene. I’m home, but not completely.
Aesthetic. Anesthetic. Another cappuccino, please. This last flight will be long, too.