A week ago I was London bound. Free from the leashes of university and ready for adventures. My mind went roaming with the scenery. I saw the trees from Snow White. They were marching to war like the Ents from The Lord of the Rings. I saw the sea. It was all you could see from the right facing windows, and it felt like the train itself had become an ocean liner. Red cliffs. Low tide that resembled marsh lands. Ship wrecks with a hidden past. One deer. Then a flock. Birds rising up in a great white cloud, slow motion, real life. Flapping wings. A castle of trees, sadly no castles of clouds. My old mans hat on the bright yellow backpack. The ring with the remembrance knot turned to the innside of my hand so I can always feel it. Swan bride and groom on the lake. A small mansion. A gigantic sea of sheep. And a Llama now and then. And in the end, at the station with the stairs, there was the boy with the dark hair and blue eyes. Waiting silently in the shadows. His little kids bike at his side. Home.
My favourite time in New York was when I was out walking with my camera. Absorbing the city in the rain and fog. Observing people walking by. Imagining their lives and what it would be like to live there. Walking by theaters with Philip Seymour Hoffman on stage, so close to everything usually so distant. Craning my neck to see the sky. Rumbling rides in the subway. Jack Kerouac on my mind.