I kept a notebook with me. Writer’s habit. A place to scratch thoughts as they surfaced. I had been travelling for a little over a week at this point. Marseille to Nice and Nice to Venice, basking in that Mediterranean light. The pages were moist and curling from salt, sea and the breeze that carried every worry far, far away.
Where does one begin to understand everything that has happened here? I wrote in one entry. It was a thought from an early morning walk in Piazza San Marco, when the square was empty save for a kit of pigeons waiting for their next Instagram debut. I liked to visit the space before the gelato carts opened and tour guides with their well-rehearsed accounts waltzed through. Much like pigeons, they were repeat offenders of orchestrated chaos. A life-source surging the square.
Piazza San Marco is old, 800s old. While walking where so many have walked, my contributions to humanity (and civilization as whole) shrunk in comparison, cowering in the coolness of Venetian shadows.
It’s easy to question purpose and place when travelling. To crack open insecurities and revisit old wounds. My thoughts shifted and changed with the rise and fall of the sun. By twilight, my heart was a firefly, flickering and sparking joy. In a city where darkness is a character unto itself, with only restaurants and lamp-lit passageways aglow, my curiosity resurfaced. More so when I stood near the Lion of Venice, admiring its long tail and arched wings, wondering what such a thing would look like if it existed. If it dared to close the book beneath its feet and take flight.