Visible crow’s-feet stick out from a reflection in the mirror. And I count one silver thread for each car we drive on. Above thirty the passing of time makes itself present in one’s skin. Fast, almost imperceptibly, each second, each month and year is gone and leaves only footprints. I cuddle next to the window of this new laptop looking at life passing by in a virtual manner. Because nine months on the road are many. Because I forget the events that crowd our days on the road. Because often I wonder which city I am waking up in, or where have we just come from. Because sometimes I don’t want time to pass anymore. And I dream of looking at the travel in a slide show, to classify feelings, to organize in neatly labeled boxes the roads that we have already walked. To stop time and write this blog. Not to forget, but to archive. Faces, names, numbers, food, the flavour of each cup of tea. A million images that slip off my mind when I turn my head towards the new village on our way. Sunsets I won’t remember even if I try. Words and scripts that fade away and again look like hieroglyphs on my diary. I need to make room for what is coming. Get re-born into this adventure, now and everyday. Let the seeds of travel grow in my mind, build themselves into skyscrapers from the pores of my skin, sprout with the sweat from my neck under the sun. Lose the fear of wrinkles, of discoloured hair, of cracked skin. Learn to love what comes next and let the travel draw a map over my body.
9 months – 275 Mandalas. Shaped every day – stubbornly, methodically, invariably, sand by sand. Sometimes in colours I have never seen, some others plain and black and white. Bright and blinding, pale and fading, they ultimately evaporate in the morning light, looking for their place in the intangible wall of past. Constructed and de-constructed on a regular basis under the invisible law of landscapes and people’s lives I pass through, crash into, merge with, slide by or glimpse from far away. I run like a curvy river towards an unknown end, while time flies away over me like a magpie. I stare helplessly at it, hoping to suspend its wings.My long messy hair, curly growing beard, sunburnt skin are the physical connection with days that I would like to re-live. The sky flames that melted my skin in Issyk Kul are still present on my peeling back, the dust of steppes and deserts filters through my dreads, the beard that some Arabs pointed at months ago grows now out of control. And physical change is the only reminder that everything is anyway in motion. Growing up like a kid for whom the days are a playground and adventures lurk around each turn of the road. Are we really born on that marked date of the calendar when everybody sends us a present, or are we reborn each and every day?