each brick, each stone, each sidewalk step. each glance a lonesome story pieced together in a patchwork parade that staggers lost through the nighttime.
where my head lays. tomorrow it feels like home. today it felt like a dream. surreal, souless and splendid, but without a tangible crust to chew on. contrasting, contradicting, contaminating. a cultural heritage hidden under blankets of oil. of wealth and corruption feeding an indifference that can't be fingered. of disillusion and divide. of lost dreams and hidden hopes. of stubborness and hypocracy; Baku blends the old and the new, and destroys them both.
where my body moves. following a compass taught to find home, to find rest, to find joy and love and fun and splendour. a magic compass, a trusted compass. traveller's fatigue fades to dust as a sloping train ambles through a hot curtain, a mash of heat and sweat, a laborious ode to comfort played on out-of-tune strings warped wild in summer orchards.
where my heart rests. a sun fades as it colours the city in shades. a hazy summertime horizon swamps the unknown in dust, watching and not wanting to be left behind. the city talks back and whispers its way into the night, drifting along a beaten track that leads straight to a place at once comforting and beguiling. without needing to, without trying to, without wanting to, Tbilisi is like coming home.
thoughts stretched out from Baku to Tbilisi, from city to city.
hugs and love from the Caucasus and all its contradictions.
j
