A friend asked me why haven’t I blogged lately.
Actually a couple of them did.
I replied the lame response of “I am in the middle of a doing things worth writing about”… but alas… that was not exactly the case.
A certain friend told me it will be hard to top the stories I had shared before, all the crazy, unusual and sometimes unbelievable events I went through… I laughed, but inside I slapped myself a round a little.
Suddenly I remembered one of those motivational posters saying “it is not about where you have been, but it is about where you are going”.
And that was a little wake up alarm. Which I apparently had put on continuous snooze for quite a while.
So I went to Sri Lanka for the weekend.
Packed my friends, a book which I did not choose (an attempt to kill the OCD control freak residing in me), a swimming suit and a pair of flip flops.
I will not bore you with the details of my 36 hour exploration of the primitive tropical shores of Galle, but I will bore you with the main morale of this post.
I didn’t swim with dolphins, nor attempt to surf, or even party with the locals until the wee hours of the night.
I slept. Alot. And I watched people. The few of them that were soaking in the ocean sun.
I noticed that nearly all of them had visible tattoos. As a person who always wanted to get one but never had the decisiveness to choose a design I know I won’t hate at a certain point in time, I instantly judged these people to be carefree hippies.
I took it back right away. Just because initially it is not nice.
Then I realized that all these people have actually been decisive, they know what they will love now and what they will love in years when their skin is sagging.
Then I judged myself.
This one I did not take back.
I noticed a 40 some year old man with a sketch board and a palette of colours. He was sitting close by, his back to the ocean. I assumed he was trying to capture the beauty of the old hut that is the bar with the array of flags that constitute its unique décor.
What caught my eye was not the abstract interpretation that he was hunched over, nor his large tattoo that started from his wrist to an undisclosed location beneath his khaki short sleeved shirt. It was his cap. Worn the wrong way around, it simply said in an non artistic font,
“Art in Transit”
I slept some more.
It is not about where we have been. I could have conquered the existing and non existing realms of the universe, but then what…
A traveller, rather an explorer cannot die on his office chair whilst typing an email to his client urging for speedy payment. This nomad must end his life in an abnormal and legendary manner. He will be remembered by his last moment, hence triggering the readers of his life story in a 100 years to turn the pages and see how he ended up there. For him to perish silently in the florescent lights of a corporate jungle will simply be equivalent to ending an exquisite 5 course gourmet meal with a pack of skittles. Umm, skittles are actually pretty awsome, so let’s disregard that metaphor. But I suppose you know what I mean.
But every traveller is entitled to his rest, no? But what if this is not a transit, what if this is it, the last destination? It would be a shame…
At that point I decided to get up from the random place I fell asleep in and looked around to find something to do that would constitute an engaging last page (just incase ofcourse)…
I will not bore you with my attempts, simply for they are not worthy of my last page…
I have not found that trigger yet… I am still here in limbo…