A postcard

Dear Father McAlister

Yes that’s a star fish on my head. You know, those five fingered flesh lumps you were so eager to call ‘nonsense’ and ‘propaganda’.

Meditating with the Buddha

Outside a building, just a little apart from the rest of the temple, I spied two pairs empty shoes. From within came the throaty singing so familiar in this place, and the harsh beat of a steel drum. My curiosity was peaked, and so, cautiously, I slipped off my own shoes and stepped inside.

The buddhas chanting

I can only imagine the rest of the tourists were turned away by the grand staircase, a structure that almost seems to dare you to even try and climb it. That’s the only explanation as to why the temple was so quiet.

Beneath the Buddha

There’s something in the statues eyes, in the way they aren’t looking down at me but rather down at himself, as though thinking. It tells me this is for the now, for the me sitting here today, not some historical remanent of when religion was a booming, all powerful business.

What do the normals do?

I woke up alone, which is weird because a few hours ago there was definetly somebody else in the room. She was American, had earphones in, and gave me a brilliant opportunity to ask about her struggles travelling (an opportunity I spectacularly missed.)

“I’m Sad”

The thing is, I’ve realised pretty recently that I’m not annoyed at this and that or frustrated with how things turned out or regretful over those wiggly mistakes back there. I’m just, like, y’know, sad.

The me I met in Rome

This could very well be the story of how I learned all about myself in Rome (which I did), or how I became more brave and more confident (which I did not). But, well, this is not that story. This is the story of how I literally met a man with my name, and quite a few other things of mine as well.

pencilcraterbox

Good things.