heathrow.

Blurred mirrors everywhere. Screens and polished surfaces. I am walking forward. My mind is not at its sharpest state. Everything is made of metal or glass, at least that is what the impression should be. I am guessing all those cups of wine did eventually leave an effect on me. People are walking by, big luggages trailing them. They are all of different cultures, or at least origin. The variety astounds me. It was always around me, nothing new. But for whatever reason, right now, it is striking to me. Furthermore, it is their expression which draws me. Most of them are worried. Puzzled faces built upon a machine of thoughts and doubts, questions which will just raise more questions until there is a change of subject. They do not notice me. Even though, as I walk gently, I stare at each and one of them. So wound up in their dialogue, but soon, I have a feeling, they will not even know where they are going. I am not better, I am the same. But I like to notice and observe. Not judge. Sometimes it is hard, but whenever it happens I just find all the arguments of why that person should not be judged, why no one deserves such a treatment. At least I believe so. I am convinced that most of the times, our brain is like a monkey, it just jumps to conclusions, and the saddest part is that, we fall for it. I walk by a big family, originating from Africa, I guess. They are standing and waiting for something. About 12 people, children, women and men, As I pass by, I notice the 3 oldest looking men, scalding the children for doing what children do. They are dressed up in full suits, and I find that ridiculous., as the remains of the family is dressed up in clothes more depicting their culture. I am laughing inside. Why the hell would you ever accept those values, west is as screwed up as any other. I shake my head and presume that people still believe that west is better than their own rich, meaningful and beautiful culture. Propaganda!. It brightens my mood but a bit. Not because of them, but for the phenomenon. I am on my way to home. Yet I am possibly searching for every reason not to go home. There is no hope. Without money, I cannot even relax in the park. The rain these days is quite stubborn. I pass by an Indian father taking a photo of his son, and I grab for my phone. An invitation from a friend. I quickly evaluate the proposition in my mind and decide to go. It certainly cannot be worse than being home. Sitting in the room. The room which I know too well. While being there my thoughts are bound to wonder and put her in my mind again. Pleasure and pain, mixed in a violent stream of images. All irrational. Chaotic. Unreal and imaginary. I understand, and for this, I prefer not to be the victim of my own brain. I notice the sign which marks the path to the Underground, and I swiftly turn left down the stairs..