I close my eyes.
And I am where the land meets the sea, I'm on some train or bus; I'm walking barefoot.
Salty waves are crashing onto the beach in Muizenberg,
They are beating the rocks in St. Ives into polished black beads,
They are spraying the grey pier at Whitehaven.
The Indian and Atlantic oceans are stirred together along Cape Point.
There are people around me who I don't and never will know, maybe they don't speak my language. I'm half alone, I don't know what will happen next, who I will meet, or what I will be.
I open my sore red eyes.
Those beaches, rocks, sand, salt, water, the people on the train- they're all in my computer in a file called "Pictures," they're in a white frame on my wall, they're a pile of papers, letters, and postcards in a shopping bag on my floor. So contained, like me. I know pretty well what will happen next, I know who I will meet, and what I am becoming.
I really long for the beautiful, lonely uncertainty of travel.