River of dreams

Subcontinent. India. Mumbai. Goa. Hampi. Ajanta. Aurangubad. Varanasi. Nepal. Pokhara. Poonhill. Gorakhpur. Golghar. Delhi. Agra. Jaipur. Pushkar. Diu. Mumbai.

And the doors closed. But my heart opened. Big time. India is running through my veins. Holy river of sparkles reminds me every day since I came home from home that I left something on the streets with countless possibilities. Something is waiting for me around the corner of the world. And it is warm. It spreeds the wings. It catches every breath I take. It holds my hands. It makes me flourish with every single tip of my toe. It makes me laugh. It treads down already passed paths and lifts the veil to greenish valleys of life. It is life.

Now, here I am, this is me. Trying to survive in the world of sudden sensations of cold that just keep going. No stopping. Rushing through corridors of what I know as freedom, sencerity, pure happiness and intimacy, race of western life tries to break the wall, climb the highest mountain I ever had in my life and flip it over into control again. But as my four-leaved clover said: you left Slovenia as dark-blue to black coloured boat. And you came back as yellow-red-orange-goldish river. I understand the metaphor now.

I got rubber stamped all over. Not just in my passport. My mind. My body. My soul. Places on Earth that connect me to the higher level of my existence automatically spread around and let me to fly. Survival tone of my past hundreed days got birdly feeling. And big sign "International Airport Chhatrapati Shivaji, Mumbai" made me scream. Inside-out, no hindrance. I want(ed) to run away. Speed it up, without hesitation, to the environment where I became what I am now.

Maybe it sounds like a cliche, maybe it also is, but saying "You either love India or you hate it" has risen up to Himalayas with answer for ten million rupees sitting underneath my skin. It's the permanent transparent tattoo but as plain as plain can be. India.