We would walk distances we normally took a taxi to cover,
spending nights in narrow beds, in cold rooms,
in villages we had never been and never will come back to.
Following paths that led to nowhere other than to ourselves.
We smiled, in denial.
We were fighting for words.
The regret of someone else determining the rhythm and direction.
I’ve had a hard time being lonely.
After kilometers of sun fighting the stubborn clouds,
the days ended in humid coziness.
Reading a book while the rain carefully kissed my toes.
The plants and I drank in mothers’ tears.
My lungs are clean, my feet are suffering.
A day without a blister is a dayI haven’t lived.
I wish I could walk forever, never stand still.
Having to wear all my clothes,
fighting the wind;
conquering the snow storm;
gamboling through the vivid landscape watched over by the flock of birds;
in a small summer dress and an Annapurna rose.
Covered in sunblock, still a victim of the burning light forever shining.
I longed for a pen.
Young teenagers making arrows,
babies falling and laughing, instead of crying.
The evenings filled with silverware touching plates and soft Nepali language.
The barking dogs would eventually get tired, making room for crickets singing their homage to nature.
My eyes were hungry.
I could feel my own heartbeat staring at the landscape.
They caught every movement, while the moment caught me.
This page started blank.
Wordless as can be.
My pen contained ink not willing to flow,
my mind was in visual orgasm.
Oh, the wonders I’ve seen.