As a carrot for an upcoming post I have a drabble first and then a destination to follow. I felt rather sunny and colourful this weekend and the destination I'll be detailing which is the home to the following picture, is definitely that. Colourful. In all sense of the word (and a heavy emphasis on the artsy side). And yet, in all this overwhelming wash of colour, I loved best the moments when I sat. Foot-sore and tearing into food (finally). Then. Watching, breathing in the air, the smells and the sounds.
The best travel experiences are often the ones when you aren't actually engaging in the physical act of travelling.
The horse had seen people. Many smiles.
The horse had held many riders. Many laughs.
The horse had turned many circles. Many times.
Too many to count.
The world was a blur of colour and as much as the horse adored the laughter drawn from his back and his fellows, he loved best when all was still.
When the music ran down and he began to bob slower. Slower.
That was the magic.
Remembering reality.
Was in stillness.
Not in spilled ice creams and screams. Nor giggles and cartwheels or fresh paint and streaking sunlight.
No, it was in the floating dust, bobbing up and up, down and down in the future of one day. When, between the shaft of light cut out from the tearing off the wood slats nailed up over fragile windows, a hand would reach out. It would brush faded wood while lips would breath over the dust, sending it twirling in carosel circles.
Cherishing.
I encourage you to travel back to a piece of your childhood this week. Go, dig it up. It's just as important experiencing new places as it is to remember old ones and what you found there.
Moony.
The best travel experiences are often the ones when you aren't actually engaging in the physical act of travelling.
The horse had seen people. Many smiles.
The horse had held many riders. Many laughs.
The horse had turned many circles. Many times.
Too many to count.
The world was a blur of colour and as much as the horse adored the laughter drawn from his back and his fellows, he loved best when all was still.
When the music ran down and he began to bob slower. Slower.
That was the magic.
Remembering reality.
Was in stillness.
Not in spilled ice creams and screams. Nor giggles and cartwheels or fresh paint and streaking sunlight.
No, it was in the floating dust, bobbing up and up, down and down in the future of one day. When, between the shaft of light cut out from the tearing off the wood slats nailed up over fragile windows, a hand would reach out. It would brush faded wood while lips would breath over the dust, sending it twirling in carosel circles.
Cherishing.
I encourage you to travel back to a piece of your childhood this week. Go, dig it up. It's just as important experiencing new places as it is to remember old ones and what you found there.
Moony.
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