The Visitor

(originally written on a bus to Garmisch, December 2nd, 2013)

I staunchly believe that there may be too many places to go. There is very certainly the great possibility of too many cities with too many unique nooks, cultures, and bakeries.

I'll always remember Atlanta by the curve of its thruway. Which, may be more than I can honestly say for the monotonous cross of Texas. Maybe I should warn you early, I may not be that sort of writer. New Orleans for instance was hazy; the humidity condensed into too many daiquiris.

Though what I am sure I will remember of November most is the feeling of looking out the train's window. I will remember the 16oz in my left hand, playing someone else's skee-ball machine with the right. I will remember the love of others' lives in places I have not paid rent.

As jetlag sets in, my reality is the memory: the sad feeling of gracing each earth for just moments, hardly aware what each goodbye could possibly mean, and then, almost suddenly despite that horrid callous sad, finding each pleasant morning created in a new vitality, entirely my own.