dots on the map…
This is what travelling means to me. Looking at the map, looking at that mark beside a place name with as few expectations or preconceptions as possible, then arriving onto this dot and feeling it expand into three, four, five dimensions as my senses build a new map. In Irkutsk or Islington, South Kensington or San Pedro Sula, discovery drives me.
What I uphold here beside discovery — in exaltation — is the story. To tell a story. To do it the old fashioned way, with words carefully placed into sentences and caressed by the openings and closings of a paragraph. To create something that I can reread in a year or two and still get a kick out of. If somebody else reads this story too… if one other person reads these words and agrees with just some small fraction of their whole through what it speaks to them, then that is as much as I would ever hope for.
I prefer pieces to fragments. I relish a thoughtful phrase or couplet, but when it becomes stranded amidst photographs and hyperlinks it is diminished in my eyes. Links and images have their place, but let words dominate. Let them dance and dazzle. Let them reign.