The keys form cords that induce an eyeball elevation.
Flickering frames, birds flying in and out of vision.
A pigeon or a crow replacing the mighty ginger eagle of the sea,
From way back then.
The beach became paving slabs and moss,
The sun disguised by brick not coconut.
The Arabian Sea profound and distant.
Warm Indian faces replaced by impatient Caucasians at the bus stop K.
Lentils to tinsel
Beetroot from jars
Water to Wicked.
Brown as a berry coated in snow.
As the tears drop out onto the page i wonder. Analysis of this being a good or bad decision? Three days left in India, then transit for over two. Friends and family waiting on the platform as the train pulls into Durham City, the exact location from where all of this started. Drip drip drop. The sorrow of leaving this exotic freedom behind, but the elation of seeing loved ones. Split, splatter, drip drop. Organs are seventy thirty.
No more worries of disease, earthquakes or being tsunami’d away, but so much wonder to miss. Returning to England will take me over, blending again once more into nothingness. The brown will fade to white, the small to not and wild adventure replaced by routine, patterns and the normality of staying put.
Whenever i have professed to have changed, to keep Asia inside of me i have failed. This time i am not kidding myself that all i have learned i will carry. It’s impossible. See how i feel in a week, once the greetings are over. Sure to be floored, lost, splattered until i can connect the pieces, join some fragments and build something from the last eight months. To find a way to re-form, all chicken nugget like.
Traveling can be so thick and fast. Sometimes all you want to do is see, sometimes rest. You become so full of experiences that you almost burst pop splat. I wish there was a small white cube in which to stop, digest and reflect between countries. A clear space to sit and think. A space without visuals, without sound, without anything. A bland little box in which to make the transition from last to next. A time of zero experience and zero sensation, apart from still. A little white cube in which you can go inwards to take it all in. To learn from the constant slog – to take the best from the experience and listen to the knowledge. A little white cube in which to understand what you have been through. A place of your very own just to sit, digest and recharge before the next explosion of sensation. One day left in Burma and the little white cube will be another aeroplane. Not white, not square and not empty. Up and down, high and flat. Exhausted in so many ways. Time to find sand and waves and do nothing for a while. A space in which to stop.