Fragility; Overtime

Often times I feel like a foreigner. I can visit conversations here and there but at the end of the day I am alone floating somewhere. Usually I know exactly where I am, at the Mismaloya pool at night surrounded by mountains and candle lit rooms, since electricity was thankfully unreliable. It was here where I floated on my back and witnessed a most surreal vision.



I must have been aligned with something out of this world, with such bulbous cumulus clouds in bright pale grays pregnant with air, acting as the moon illuminating anything in contact surrounded by mountains and so many mountains. I float there often and wonder if a photograph would get me there quicker. I cant find anything remotely close.

But then there are times I desperately want to remember, but suffocating in the months doldrums and wondering if I was ever there and not in some dumb pool.



Then there are days I am back in London, passing shops and smelling quickly. The sounds of the city made my feet move quicker than norm. I love that I am my father’s daughter, always quick on my feet and never getting too terribly lost, always finding my way back.



When London was fresher in my mind, I would picture myself in one location and map out the best and quickest way to get to point B. But at the end of the day I am usually back in Regent’s Park, at night, partially worried if the queen’s gate has been shut, and imagining climbing the gate, cuing the “plink” of the thick spikes. Ive been floating more and more, as I do monthly, trying to fight something but seemingly losing. I am nostalgic and missing familiar faces as you would be my immediate comfort especially still in a foreign town.

Maybe tonight I will be somewhere else. Maybe riding thru Munich, Vienna, or Antalya and back to Rome.

I believe my ghosts are still there. I should visit someday.

Right baby Jia?