Jelgava , Latvia
Sun glanced mellowly over the white walls and the red tinted back drop, and the cool AC air drifted lightly over the white sheets. I sat alone, weary, on a king bed, in Riga, Latvia, and I realized what I have always known — I like to be alone. Especially in countries where I cannot speak the language. Where I wander with only the thoughts in my head and questions about others. I like hotel rooms, with their even balanced lighting and quiet spaces. I like losing the pressure of every day life and finding solace in wandering streets with strangers.
Someplace, all of us find a little niche of earth that reflects the parts of heaven that has been set aside for us. For some it is the deep roots of the oak tree, digging down for generation, solid and enduring, ever reaching deeper into the same earth. For others it is the migration of the great birds, landing for days, or even seasons in strange lands, only to fly off again as the weather changes.
The wandering men, the ones who enjoy unfamiliar places, are those little animals that feed off the foundations of others. They find food and shelter under the branches of those old oaks that made the land long before the souls of men awoke. They are not greedy men, though they are selfish and lonely in a way that only those without roots of their own can be. It is these men who draw my soul near to themselves and comfort me with their words of…
