Somewhere between delusion and awake, or somewhere between Svalbard and South Georgia—I wasn’t sure. Both would’ve been just as scenic, and I didn’t mind much either way.
Her third Hogmanay. She thought she was as misplaced as the char inside her cylix. Besides, who else would drink such herbal tea instead of whiskey on a New Year’s eve in Scotland? Along with its vintageous, made-in-Greece cup that nobody nowadays would commonly own?
In times of yore, I used to fall for the idea of wanderlust. Stations moving behind night train window, eyes of spouses longing for immediate arrival in every corner of the airport, the smell of salty water slowly vanished within merchants’ old-fashioned perfume scent on cruises—all of them were all the kind of constancy that I kept witnessing each time. And I felt good, as well as alive. It was as if the entire humankind was within my neighbourhood and that all voyages were just routines that kept me sane. It was as if I never befriended the word “hometown,” or “settlement,” or “stay,” not even a chance to know the meaning of.
I’d love to see you in an overexposured photograph where we’re looking at the burning red of sunset and I steal a quick snap of your portrait gazing at the west. Just a dark silhouette of you. In which you don’t have to worry about the possibility that you may be looking all peculiar at that moment, because we could always disguise it in all black. In which we learn that obscurity could somehow be good if we know how to befriend them, wisely.