I fell in love with pictures.
Pictures of Barcelona. Pictures of exquisite gothic architecture; pictures of alleyways that seem no wider than my own hallway. Pictures of people in delightful restaurants sharing the evening with a sunset of melted gelato. Pictures of tanned skin, quiet moments and sunlight streaming between understated crevasses, revealing a story in each stone's silver lining. The marks and indents of the heel of a beautiful woman, perhaps a coin precariously crawling on his own brilliant journey. Those pictures of adventure, of breathing sweet air and of people who need no introductions.
I started to dream. I started to dream that there were these wonderful memories that swim unsettled in my mind, begging for the sunlight, too, to fabricate its silver lining. A beautiful table filled with wine, food fresh, tangy and sublime. A simple loaf of bread drizzled in olive oil. White plates and orange fairy lights surrounded by seats filled with people I could possibly never know. Those laughs of theirs, vibrant and thick in the balmy air of a summer night. I wondered whether those people I dream about are merely characters from a book of some other traveller, of someone who dared. I realised quickly, upon another dream, that possibly the things that happen in books could happen to a dreamer like me. That maybe I have already the warmth of a welcoming second family, strung together by careful strings of coincidence and clutter in my future somewhere. Perhaps a journal is simply the residual mark of a traveller's soul that absorbed some of the pieces, others scattered around the world in the hearts of the many darers who dreamt too.
Wet ink on torn paper, my soul could rest someday.
C.
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