The End is Where We Start From.

Hermosa you are my camino now. (Spain)
A single snowflake falls somewhere in the world. Then another, and then another. Like words, before long, we find ourselves traveling a landscape of art created by our observations. Each step redefines the landscape, and our single set of footprints there to remind us of where we have been.

Much of art is like that, we look at it, we take a single glance and we think we have derived the message that the artist meant to say. Yet it's never about a single message, it's about what it means to you. It's what you perceive from the picture, in essence, it's what we ascribe to the art, the image we want to see- not often what's really there, or what the artist intended.

Look a little closer and we will discover that in those single footprints, someone has been walking in our steps the whole time, walking where we step, so that all along, there was someone else with us the whole time.

I love you forever. (Brussels)
 For me, this person was Shannon, my love, my soul-mate, my everything. Every kilometer through Spain that I bled, she was with me. Every conversation made in the dark, alone, and scared- it was her who was my voice of comfort  When I celebrated in Rome, I raised a glass to her. Then in Auschwitz,  I said sorry for the both of us. In Paris I laughed each time the turnstiles refused someone at the Metro, a curse Shannon shared the last time we were there together. At night often I'd look up at the stars, wherever I was, and remembered  what I told her before I left. That no matter how far a part we are, we're always sharing the same sky. To be honest, there were very few moments I didn't think of her, and there were many night's I longed for her companionship. We both knew this would never be easy, but she knew, all she had to do was say come home and I would, but she never did. None the less she's stuck in my brain, part of me, wherever I go.

Then one day the fragile snow melted and the world of white faded back into reality. When the last snow flake turned into the final tear. A reality where the words melt and begin to flood, and they sweep you away. I no longer felt her presence next to me. Was it my failure to reassure her, was I wrong in assuming that we'd survive the deluge? Face down, mud in my face, left with the mistakes I never knew I was making.

When I walk by myself, I am never alone.
 I miss you. I love you.
I walk for you.
The Owl and the Nightingale perched above, I push my hand into the mud to raise myself. Should this have been months ago, I would have been too weak to climb from the quicksand, but now at the end of it all, I realize it's not courage, not glory in success that flows through my veins, but the strongest of all the forces in the universe: love.

I'm not walking, I'm running back to you, running so hard I'm leaving an avalanche in my wake, running not back again, not where we left off, but to the end of it all, for this is where we start from.


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