There are places I want to go. Places with raging waters, blue waters, calm waters, waters with houses built on them, waters that one can go underground to view their inhabitants, waters that I can slide from tens of meters above, waters so clear that I can see the pores of my skin, waters so green, waters so colourless, waters that never end.
For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to go. There are strange lands that call my name. Strange people that whisper to me that I should go see their culture. Markets that pull me to experience them. Trees that want me to photograph them. Roads that want me to walk on them. Artefacts that want me to buy them.
Reminds me of the masks of Lamu. By jove, if my soul ever had a calling, it is to collect those damn things. They looked grotesque, ugly, scary, deformed, awe-inspiring and in total, the sort of thing that I would love to have in my home. At the door, in my bedroom, at my study. Soul-less sockets of eyes staring at me from the wall.
At some point I wanted to put lights behind those eyes. Bring them to life. But then again, I see how that would be constructed as witchcraft. Who lights up masks?
But reality is a bitch. And for a while there, I went along with her. Listened to her fears. Kinda believed her if we are to be honest. That life is a boring day after day, and if you wish for it to be different, you plan for it on your off days.
But then I’ve gone through my screenshots. The things that I would love to own. The places that I would love to go to. The words that I wanted to read again. The love that I want to give myself.
And I’m reminded that there are places that call me by my name. It’s not me. It’s them. And as my mother taught me when I was a child, when you are called, it is only polite to answer back.