History, Not in words
I rarely love travelling by train. I don’t know how they laid out the tracks but almost always it passes from non enchanting terrains. But travelling on a bus is enthralling no matter how many times I have traveled on the route; of course route has to be smooth. Watching outside the window, a season playing with my hairs, hatefully disheveling them, I spot places, mostly abandoned where I want to have a cigarette. Just five minutes with that unimportant history. I love it when I create my own history of that place with images. No words, I tell you. Poetically, a history in smoke. So it can live with me in haze. But while I keep charming myself in this little beauty, bus passes. So does my cravings, leaving a trail behind. This makes me think if I really wanted to be there. No. I just wanted to have a thought of being there.
Now come to a different color of this love for abandoned places. How often do you love walking on the roads which remain empty, almost all the time? Of course, always. But more than that I love walking on Sunday Roads. Yeah, I call them that. Sunday Roads, where on previous day people were bustling with their cars or motorbikes. But on a Sunday it becomes a heaven for walking, of course there remains traffic but it is not that much to distract me. A perfect stride to imagine stories, stories on the pavements of a fight or a person waiting for the bus, stories of a cart pusher who was throwing his epiglottis out just so he could earn his day’s living, stories of a blind or an old man/woman getting help to cross the road. And I walk, weaving those images into a haze, into an unimportant history. Walking right out of it and going far.
History is something you love if it is not in words. It has to be like a distant memory, blurry but riveting in colors.
