Somewhere other than here

A man walks along the waterfront in Doha in the early evening. The light is good, the air has finally cooled, and the boats are coming in.

He sees very little of it.

For the first few minutes he is in a group chat, reading a debate between people in three countries about something that happened in a fourth. Then he is in the morning, replaying a short exchange with his brother and finding the better reply he did not give. Then he is in tomorrow, rehearsing what he will say on a call that has not been scheduled yet.

His feet are by the water. The rest of him is everywhere else.

It has never been easier to leave. A phone will take us to any room in the world in a second. Memory will take us back to any conversation we wish had gone differently. Worry will take us forward to every meeting we have not had. None of it needs a ticket.

There is nothing wrong with any of these journeys on its own. Planning helps. Reflection helps. A good book can carry someone across centuries, and that is a gift.

The trouble is that the trips have become the default, and arriving has become the exception. We drift out of the present so often that being in it starts to feel unusual, almost effortful.

The boats are still coming in. The light is still good, for another twenty minutes or so.

What would he notice if, just for those twenty minutes, he stayed?