Excess Baggage

It was my time again. Don Muang terminal 36 Biman Air to Tokyo.
Trying to escape the constraints of travel journal, pushing away from captains log or voyeurs manual. Grasping perspective in the endless expanse of monotonous blue terminal carpet. I guess it was meant to calm me before boarding the budget airliner that would be my coffin for the next 8 hours. I wondered who id sit next to...would we talk, would our eyes meet or would we do all we could to deny each others existence for the entire journey, or at least until we lost pressure and the oxygen masks dropped from the over head panel at which point we would hug and pray together for forgiveness, perhaps confess our sins and perhaps if it happened to be a pretty girl we might hold hands and embrace for one final moment of passion..

I screwed too long with my excess baggage to request my usual aisle (why the fuck does that word have an "s"???} seat, leaving me perhaps jammed between two rotten teethed tokyo smokers.

I imagined the next street i would walk down, the next snow fall i would crunch through. The first friendship i would make. I imagined a space that i had long since forgotten, reading a good book. The first window i would look out from. I committed to this journal. I needed it for a clear mind. I needed to be clear, I had no plan after touching down.
When you realise how much there is to know, you realise how really little you actually know...