Revisiting pictures and scribbles from travelling, a good while ago. (Some in text, some in Moleskine - but I was half sober on margarita that handwriting became barely legible) It all already feels so far away and long ago. I remember the midnight dips, long walks, motorcycle rides. Vietnam was beautiful and now in my reveries it is even better.
Why are the matter of love and travel considered romantic?
- Though they may not last, we, through the experience, come to the closet to what it means to be alive: to be filled with joy, to feel vulnerable, to find roots, to be brave enough to break away. To take and to give, to be animated or to be still - In the moment, an ephemeral glare of the sun into your eyes, or a lover's touch, that one glimpse of eternity, breath of ecstasy - nothing would ever
feel more universal, dreamy, but real.