Lamentations of a Chronic Traveler

Cultured Narratives

(Written in February 2013)

How else do you say it without laughing?

She wore clothes typical of an average American woman her age. Nothing elaborate, usually dull– although her wardrobe was overflowing with colorful garments from overseas. Her closet was filled with the aromas of India, Kenya, Turkey, Italy, Australia, China, Japan, Canada, Mexico, and Spain. Mainly Spain. That’s where her heart was, truly. Despite the tears shed there, love lost, and days of feeling helpless, Spain was the only place she felt at home.

It was where she met people who exist now only in her memory, but those people made her feel things she couldn’t feel here. Not in this sad city.

She’d married an Indianan man– not Indian– and bore children of her own who were very typical of the American culture and were very into the whole “I’m better than anyone else, and if I’m not I’m going to make myself better by buying things” philosophy.

She wasn’t, but she played the part well. Deep within her soul, she yearned for the salty scent of the sea, the sun caressing her weary face, and the bright smiles of strangers that used to make her day. In her mind she was content. Not physically, no. But if she could outweigh thoughts of clear blue seas and skies and warm smiles over the gray sky, dead grass, and tired faces surrounding her, she would be happy the rest of her life.

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Words

Abstract Essays, Small Miracles

A.k.a. “How I feel about writing”.

The power of words is timelessly underrated. The consequences of words we have handwritten late at night because we couldn’t contain them any longer have become the bases of our own lives’ mysteries. Words in letters we write to people within the realms of our minds–and never send– somehow have to capability to be transported straight into the receiver’s soul so that our words never go to waste after all. Words that we have written long ago, forgot about, then thought so much of later and put so much hope into them have become realities because some great spirit heard them and let them radiate across the universe.

Once the mind is free of constraint, God only knows what it is capable of. We have shoveled through topics that are supposed to make sense to us but have no meaning in real life. We have all been captives in some way or another…

But when we write, our souls are freed.

When I write, miracles are formed and released at a time only right according to the universe.

There is something magical about writing with my own hand. The words spill out onto the paper in front of me, and later I gape at them in astonishment, wondering where they came from. How can ink hold such lovely memories, such abstract dreams, and reveal what is hidden within the depths of my soul? This ink forces me to see what lies inside of me—it forces me to understand the reality of my self and others.

Most often, I explore lives and places unknown to me through the process of swirling blue ink across white paper between two thin blue lines. This happens subconsciously, and it is my thoughts becoming something existent. They are no longer hidden; they are swirled blue ink obvious to the naked eye.

And now my words shall be rewritten in electro-black ink, visible not only to myself but to you.