As we go

"You gotta go there to come back" do sing Stereophonics. I guess we're gone. We're so far gone that we've made up our own gipsy song. So this is to all the travelers. Mh mh.

You' rather vanish into nothingness

than getting your invisible wings cut off.

Anywhere's your home

and the road's your address.

The whistle of the sparrow is your call,

your duty nothing at all

but the world you see.

You like to think you are free,

but your eyes are chained to the horizon.

You feel the rush, you go on.

Addict.

You unravel stories a thousand years old,

ruins hidden in the jungle,

Gede's secrets still untold.

-Or so they tell you.

(And yes, we did feel like Indiana Jones).

A thousand miles are swept off

from under your feet.

You find yourself on an island,

floating like a bubble far off from modernity.

A dhow drags you away

from noises an smells,

leaving you alone with yourself,

even in the company of others.

The drumming on plastic

bouncing though chest and heart

leads you right back to the start.

In the blackout night of donkey paradise

you finally meet the laic devil in disguise.

He calls himself Satan, sits in a dark corner

and doesn't believe in the gods of bloodshed.

He talks about the Bantu, politics, and Congo.

The night is warm as the words flow.

You feel like missing this place even before leaving.

And in the end you know,

it's not just about the photographs.

It's also about the things

you never got to capture,

although you really wanted to.

Now you see it through.

It's really not about getting everything,

traveling means missing.

That's what pushes you forwards

in the quest for the next horizon.

Traveling's a song you once heard on the radio

that you've never heard since.

It's a beautiful tree stuck on your mind,

it's the light of the sun making you blind

-but you don't mind.

It's a map of phrases without words,

a promise to yourself and to the world.