Sometime in the past I have written about the sadness one feels upon passing beautiful strangers - beautiful strangers who will remain strangers and you feel that deep, curious wave of regret and loss and the kind of haunting that one cannot put a finger on but can sometime recognize with such tender clarity in the gravelly creaking of a Billie Holiday song.
Last year, in one of the most absorbing conversations collected from the Vietnam-Cambodia-Bangkok-Laos digressions, a question was solicited by a restless transient that I remembered while idling in Yangon's airport last month:
"Do people really travel to find themselves?"
Walking home from tonight's dinner with friends, I again suddenly remembered the question. I searched my memory and cannot recall what insane reply escaped my drunken mouth at that time, but the question hit me.
What if the same question was asked of me now?
What if I can revise my inebriated, clumsy reply then?
What if I can say:
"What if...what they are trying to find, they already possess, and all they really need is someone to point inward and remind them?"
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