Short distances irritate me. I like my trips to be long, I want to feel the passage of time on my skin, not on my watch.
I don’t have a watch. I don’t really care about minutes and hours. I want to be in a vehicle that moves day and night, again, day and night, until a new wrinkle appears on my forehead, until a new idea settles in my brain.
I love long distances, geographically speaking. It’s the only alternative, when memory can never take a distance from all it carries.
Memory is a double axe. One side cuts guilts, the other affections. Being in a vehicle –train, preferably, or ship, things that take no heed of time– creates a commons, a place where those two, seemingly separate realms, meet.
Travelling has this power upon some souls. It amalgamates guilt and love while one moves upon the surface of the earth. Travelling is the stretch of one’s psychic net. I always feel it nailed to the point of origin and then stretched thin, thinner as the distance grows, so thin that things cannot stay separate for long.
Long distances will help me become whole. The longer the distance, the more whole I become. I guess death, by its sheer distance from the point of origin –life– is really the ultimate trip, the final destination, the point where neither love nor guilt exist.
I guess this is also a kind of paradise.