The flexing life abroad is found in the serenity of incongruous days. But I have to admit, the closer I come to understand myself blithe, the farther I find myself from a pen.
There is nothing timeless anymore. Each day the horizon is a slow change; the fields and faces flip by like frames.
And so, with dozens of pages left blank in this book I was once so sure I would finish before I finished this journey, I'll continue without the words to patch the cracks and crevices under my thoughtless steps.
It does not end sitting in an American living room like I imagined, but instead left open and wide under the awning of two volcano perched glaciers, in a valley etched on an island floating in the Atlantic. My travels, unfinished, never finished, are forever wild. And my once aching empty simply found lovely in a (finally) wide, wide world.
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