Terra Incognita

I am traveling. With one suitcase. One mind. One heart. And each of the latter is likewise overflowing with all sorts of goods, thoughts and sentiments.

The most astonishing phenomenon, however, is that none of them seems to lose capacity. Quite the contrary. With each new acquisition, they seem to grow in volume and extend their dilative limits a little further.

I am fairly lucky these days, I must say, although you might counter, that I am easy to please. You name it. I don't really care since ultimately it all comes down to me being pleased. Stories is what I live for, stories is what I live on, and fortunately I am blessed with a distinct and constant lucky streak when it comes to tapping into the most diverse and precious tales.

At the place where I am right now, the preciousness originates from the fact that I am allowed to peek into pages of books that so far hadn't opened themselves to me - in most various respects. Yesterday morning for instance, I stepped across the threshold of social equity and disadvantage to find myself in a cramped room that was bulging with an almost dedicated and yet gentle resignation to fate.

In the evening I tied up the day's formidable impressions into a bundle of shareable memories to ship them to an unknown territory, both literally and figuratively, and I was rewarded with a most perfect reply several hours of moony sleep later - which has left me in a somewhat alert condition since.

Another eventful day has passed, and while I am trying hard to convince the Moroccan full moon to go to sleep behind the Atlas Mountains and grant me undisturbed togetherness with my friend darkness, questions rise above the brightly lit horizon and picturesquely lean against the palm trees that resemble pitch black paper cuttings against the backdrop of the mountainscape.

A lot of "what-ifs" circle overhead, hanging like shadows for my dreams. But my dreams are not ready yet to sacrifice themselves to the "what" and the "ifs". So, I will stay awake and wait for a cloud to thwart the lunar spectacle and listen for the sounds of the night, just in case it has a story to tell. Just in case I can hear the nightingale.

"It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me love, it was the nightingale." ~ Juliet