MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA XCVIII

The Traveller
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"Journey's end in lovers' meeting

Every wise man's son doth know."

William Shakespeare - Carpe Diem
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She looks out the window and wonders what it is about the passing of the landscape on a motorway that makes one more reflective than usual.

Great, deep thoughts arise, always. At least for her.

How the world calls to her. Not just a portion of it, but the entire world. Not the people, but the landscapes, the spaces, the geography. And she never cared much for geography at school, go figure ...

How she doesn't know what she is meant to be, meant to do, but that she feels she's getting closer to her mission in this world.

There is a mission, she knows that. Is there? She feels so. Could be totally wrong ...

She thinks of her grandmother, The Traveller. Antofagasta (Chile), Paris, Monte Carlo, South of France, Estoril, Windsor, San Francisco, Palma de Mallorca, and back to England, where she finally lay resting for eternity, in a vase of flowers burried in the earth of one of those beautiful anglo-saxonic cemeteries, that resemble gardens instead of places of death.

The Traveller.

She is as her grandmother was. She knows that. Always wanting to leave, always some unspeakable, silent calling from the depths of her soul, from the depths of the land, to her.

But she does not know how or when she's supposed to go. What she is supposed to do. Where she is supposed to be.

To the heights of Machu Picchu, through the great road that crosses America from one coast to the other, until the depths of the antipodes in New Zeland, that's where she wants to be, everywhere.

She remembers him, also. He is constantly with her, as her heart, because he lives in her heart, always. A part of her, as the skin, as the organs, as the limbs.

She wishes she never met him. But it's a bitter-sweet thing. She doesn't really wish that.

What for?

To know that the impossible exists? That which we all crave for?

To know that it exists and then to have it taken away is so much worse than to not know it exists.

She wishes she had never known what it feels to be complete.

Skin of her skin, he is, now, for ever.