Strangely Perfect

The hostel is such a beautiful place.  Yet, unwholesome and weird.  It creeps me into a joyless fancy.

Normal strangers come together.   People from different cultures all over the world.   We’ll sleep, eat, and explore, we’ll endure the elements, and change our lives forever, together, even if our time with each other is brief.

We connect – a sudden sense of camaraderie. Quickly, the deeply private is in the open and soon not so personal.   We’re but humans made of flesh and blood and feelings, learning about ourselves, humanity, and the world; this will, inevitably, probably, turn carnal.

The highway to her heart.

Walking wet out of bathroom 2B, clean teeth, fresh hair and feeling refreshed.  I grab the aluminum door knob to push the thin door open.   OH!  That lovely young French women.   From your dreams!   No.. better, from real life! She’s the one who woke you up from that early afternoon nap.   She and her feist woke you up.   Aurélie!  Ahh how good to see you, I smiled.

She smiled back.   It was perfect.

The sun shined in.   The table was set for either of us to make music.   Neither of us did, and the sounds of silence awkwardly lingered.  To my trusty backpack for clothes, so that I can cloth, I decided.  I rummaged into the backpack.  My first mate, the green backpack whom has carried all my day-to-day possessions these last 15 days.  What a good backpack.  Aurélie is laying on her back, flipping through her phone.   I took a deep breath of the fresh St. Kilda air on this charmingly crisp day, and neither of us spoke.   Everyone deserves pleasantly tense fantasia.

In this global jumble of traveling youth, fueled by muddled intent and tumultuous lifestyles, you’ve found each other. You’re together.  Same time, same place. Only the grace of fate to thank. For worse or better, today, you are together.  Wild, no?

It is a lottery only the courageously vivacious enter.  And, without daunt you share your corridors, tooth paste, and time.   No longer such strangers, but companions of sorts.

Soon, you catch a glimpse of each other – the true person – the self thy is discovering, too. Her true character, secrets, body, beliefs, spirit, ideology, whatever.   Maybe through curiosity, a mirror, the right question, the wrong moment; however, we are exposed.  It needs to be no more, or, no less, but whatever we wish.

Why do we force ourselves to live in such chicanery ? We choose to torment ourselves merely for the opportunity to continue the torment.   Ruinous, isn’t it?

And a toast to the perils of being free and thinking differently

The roads a lonely place.  But, with your new-found friends, you hang, chat, listen to music, tease, tell stories, visit the supermarket, cook food, easily compromise, learn about family, fears, childhood, sadness, dreams, and thousands of other nuances of the human spirit that seem to take infinitely longer to share comfortably in the real world.

She is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.    Of course I love her, I know nothing about her.   And I am her wish-come-true, too.  We know no better.

As you lay back in the wooden lounge chair, loving her madly, midnight passes. She rests on your chest.  She is tucked under your folded arms, as you breath in sync, and gaze into the night’s heavens, entranced.   Entwined, intoxicated, enchanted, but really nothing more than a reflection of the black blanketing sky above.  Darkness tells perfect lies, and every story comes to an end – the promise of our stars to one day burn no more.


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