We would walk distances which we normally would take a taxi for,
spending nights in narrow beds in cold rooms,
in villages we have never been and never will come back to.
Following paths that lead to nowhere other than ourself.

We smiled,
in denial that we were actually just fighting for words.

Isolationism.
It’s just regretting that someone else determines the rhythm and direction.
I’ve had a hard time being lonely, since there were always people around.

I’m in the middle of nowhere and nowhere is in the middle of me.
Great and free.

After kilometers of sun fighting the stubborn clouds,
the days ended in humid cosyness.

Reading a book while the rain carefully kisses my toes.
Me, as well as the plants, were drinking mothers' tears.

My lungs are clean, my feet are suffering.
A day without a blister, is a day I haven’t lived.

I wish I could walk forever, never stand still.

Having to wear all my clothes,
fighting the wind or conquering a snow storm;
or gamboling through a vivid landscape surrounded by hundreds of birds;
in a small summer dress and an Annapurna nose.
Covered in sunblock, yet a victim of the burning light forever shining.

I was longing for a pen.

Young teenagers making arrows, babies falling
and laughing instead of crying.

The evenings were filled with silverware touching plates and soft Nepali language.

The barking dogs would eventually get tired and make room for thousands of crickets singing their homage to nature.

This is no dreamland, although it appears like my own make-believe.
Imagination cannot even create the world I have walked so far.
True stories, true people, and yet unbelievably illusory.

My eyes are hungry.

I could feel my own heartbeat just staring at the landscape.
They catch every movement, while the moment caught me.
I feel awake all the time. Even in my dreams.

This page started blank.
Wordless as can be.
My pen contained ink not willing to flow,
because my mind was stuck on visual orgasms.

Oh, the wonders I’ve seen.

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