I like to write on the spur of the moment. I’m a failure at catching these fleeting thoughts and storing them somewhere in my head or heart, to reproduce at a later date.
My attention flows like the Wang Poo River. Not like a child’s but slowly and surely. I’ve had no less than one million thoughts in the last few days in North Korea and now I’m leaving, solo, undistracted.
The locals on this particular train trip, unlike the last, have given me nothing but inquisitive looks. And so, I have 10 hours to myself and the thoughts I thought would come are gone, somewhere in the pacific ocean, caught in the Kuroshio current near Japan. If I’m lucky I might catch a glance when I fly home next Tuesday, perhaps near the Philippines.
If not, it might be years before we meet again, It might be at the beach or from my tap, in the sink of my bathroom, having been evaporated near Madagascar and carried as a warm front across the Indian Ocean and my home continent before falling in my backyard.
Or maybe it won’t fall at all. It might remain a cloud I spy in the distance, but the outline remains indistinct by way of whatever obstruction or pollution that city presents to me. It might be in the snow caps next time a catch a glance of the winter olympic highlights.
Or perhaps it will go full circle, only to meet in the place we said goodbye. Naturally, it will slip through my fingers, as liquid dream water does. So, We’ll make do with describing the pictures I don’t remember taking in the country that isn’t in my passport.
I could chuckle at the absurdity.