A Voyage to a Land Afar

Play this video as you read...(well you don't have to, but bear with)

The breeze flows around you, within you, amongst all the yous that have ever set foot on this earth. Your feet of sand, earth, cinder; of carpeted moss and intricate lies; of slickened stone and whirled water; of crushed meadow and squashed bog; of pure humanity. 
Hear the trumpeting of an elephant exhaled continuously through the thousand years out of millions we will never witness. Hear the cry of the Norse warriors as they return home killing instruments becoming musical. Hear the rustle of the leaves in the Amazonian forests that harmonize with the calling of the birds.
Smell the tart citrus and spice of the Oriental; the tender beef bourguignon from a Parisian restaurant; the bite of a Mexican pepper slowly invading your lungs. 

Travel is, in my opinion, one of the most existential experiences in the world. The transcendence of time and knowledge to a place where there is only sensation. (You can stop the video now, thankyouverymuchforlistening)

Although travel has never been my constant companion (though one could argue we are always traveling) physically, it has been mentally. In my past lives I can swear that I was a magic carpet, a plane, a blade of grass in a Scottish meadow, a cloud over majestic Bali. And maybe a couple of other things like a baobab in the Sub-Saharan, and Marie Antoinette's existential cake. Perhaps these strange azoic dreams can be dismissed as mere hypnagogia, but from my perspective they are a sign of my congenital proclivity toward travel (ok, I'll stop with the big words now).

When I first thought of what to write for my second blog, I remained stuck, unsure of how to continue, but as soon as I recalled the component of traveling that remains a deal-breaker in my future career, I knew exactly what I was going to write.

To begin, I do not believe I have ever been truly homesick as long as I am not completely alone. Traveling is a beauteous adventure that has a place in my heart right beside my family and my love of the written word. I haven't had much of a chance to travel for long periods of time, so perhaps my words will come back to bite me but, at this moment in time, I think I'd be content anywhere in the world as long as I had a traveling companion or means of communication.

Secondly, I love love love to meet new people and explore new cultures. Travel ultimately fulfills both of these conditions. The idea of trying new foods, speaking new language, talking to locals, exploring ruins...all of that just comprises my paradise.

Although I would not solely decide my profession based on whether it depends heavily on travel, I believe it does have significant weight. It provides a means of enjoyment and learning, both of which are vital job characteristics. If a job or any form of activity isn't fun, why do it?

If money and job availability were not major concerns of mine (which unfortunately, like any other human on the planet who wants to make a decent living, do have importance), my number one job would be that of an investigative journalist. I recently read an article in the Daily Beast, about the issue with investigative journalists in the Middle East, many of whom are risking everything and anything to be on the front line to get a story fresh with the smell of gun-fire on the edges of its words. From my perspective, however dangerous such work maybe, it sounds exhilarating and noble and loads of fun. I doubt I'll be sneaking via canoe into Saudi Arabia,  but I am certain that regardless of the profession I end up applying myself to it will be one that invigorates me and makes me love life all the more.

I do believe that the purpose of this blog post wavers like a half-masted flag unsure whether it fully wants to embrace the wind, but I hope that at least segments of it are cohesive and are not a pile of muddlemush solidifying in your brain without chance of making any sense of it all.

Bittersweet Times
Throw away those
old days
of towers and
flocks of geese
of slick black cats and
organ jars preserved
in hundred year old sorrow
of crusted blood
and heavy armours
of silks that never die and
and little pepper feet
that never walked a mile
Forget those
days
of yellowed eyes and
weathered whips,
deliverers of pain
of war cries, and love cries
across the dusty plains
of pyramids of sweat and stone
that never touched the sky
of babbling tongues and
lost conquests
of pentagrams and
ghosts of children
that never got to breathe
And instead
think of
a world
where black and
white do match
where childhood isn’t
forsaken
and hope isn’t
locked in a little black box
just
    out of reach

I hope you all have a wonderful day!

I close,

Sofia