The Journey.

The traveller. Uprooted and rolling. For whom the journey was the only fascination. He strived for no destination in particular. Because destinations are conclusive. They become finite and make you conform. And thus, he never chose to pinpoint on a specific destination, when he spread out his map made of old handmade paper every weekend. He chose the route, the one which was most enticing, the one that caught his fancy. That would make him go around every geographical embodiment Nature has ever created. Sometimes, he would also digress from what he had initially planned. Who cares. The final destination was never binding on him anyway.

It's always interesting to write about travels and travellers. They is a certain nomadic air about them. A sense of uncertainty, of not finding them the next morning when you wake up. And a carefree countenance, indifference almost, to the worldly routines that draws you to them. It's like a cinematic sight that you see dreaming to play the lead role instead.

So, each Monday, when the larger part of civilisation gathered themselves to hit their chores, he embarked upon a new journey. A week full of new experiences, new people. A new life almost. As if he was chosen by God to only foray into untraveled lands and explore. A divine mission as it were. An old rustic bike,  a camera dangling round his neck, some beer cans and some food that he frequently gathered along the way.

He was no loner. He made several acquaintances through his journey. Countryside folks often looked up to him with an amusing fascination. Young village girls found his rugged bike and dusty appearance a fresh change from the conventionally clad village boys. Wherever he went, he mingled and celebrated with the local residents who often fed him and sometimes offered shelter. In return, he would click their photographs. Lots of them. Those photographs were his means to tell the tale of the place he visited. The joys and sorrows he witnessed. Every place was so distinct that he was but compelled to capture it. Through the week he would click incessantly, from the countryside to cities. And over the weekend, reminisce a part of his life spent on exploration.

Travel brings power and love back into your life 
- Rumi. 

Love's a thousand desires.

Love like the olden golden days. There is no state of being in-between. It's pure and wanting of corrupted egos. Say it'll work, to see it working.

Each passing day, he saw her down the street. Such a typical sight. To watch an ordinary girl trail through the ordinary street. Love of the ordinary. It was simple and straightforward. He liked it that way. He made no effort to glorify its existence. To push it to the superlative. Because the superlative is unnatural. He liked himself that way. To watch her, write about her, think about her. That state of happiness gave him the power to conduct himself. It brought him no complexity. He knew she is his. She knew he is hers. They did not have to necessarily discuss it. This blinding faith was intimate to each of them. Faith, drunken to his countenance.

That's how I'd want it to be. Simple. Agreeable. It should have the power to settle the turbulence on other fronts. The power of fulfil desires, whatever form they choose to take. It should bring endless joy, each passing day. Should be divine.