Thought fragments encountered in an old church yard in Archita, Romania, shortly before midnight; 19/09/2015

What can one hope to dream in this scenario?
Imagine going from a place that barely resembles any kind of Western normality to a village, where, on the top of an old bell tower, you see into a rougher, simpler past. Where you feel violently thrown into a time that has long given up its reign and yet, here, in this accumulation of half broken down houses, it still has a say in what makes the world spin on its axis.
The only thing keeping you grounded and strung to what you know is the shadow of an old fortified church, a sight so mouthwateringly exciting, you feel overpowered by just looking at it.
One step further. The starry Romanian night is long casting its mystery on you, you feel like only half a person because all of this can only be half real, nothing this whimsical can exist anywhere near you, you must’ve dreamt the whole thing — and then you lie down for the night, in the church yard. High stone walls greet you as you let your head hit the still cold and damp pillow, pillowed on a soft cushion of grass. Your eyes soak in the beauty of what the night sky timidly offers you. Even though you’re not alone, every word would be an affront to the honourable silence of the moment, so in silence you share this exquisite once in a lifetime experience.
And now breathe.
Under the cover of night everything seems more plausible. Hope is magnified and exalted against a backdrop to die for. In the presence of living history we seemed incredibly small and irrelevant. Heady feelings to encounter before the day’s struggle close your eyes to the stars and your starry eyed gaze goes inwards. Held breaths, closed eyes, blissful ears.
This is peace.