I was about to write a reflective post about life on the road, moving again, the weird jello-y twinge in the centre of myself every time I talk to someone, in this time before departure when the days seem to pass in slow motion, elongating, each minute heavier, before they pop–instantly–like soap bubbles when you least expect.
I was going to write something. But not only do I have what seems like a dozen pages of web content to edit and guests to persuade for a talk show that I am supposed to co-host this afternoon– I’ve found a blog entry (by an old friend from undergrad, a fellow nomad and Kerouac fan) which expresses my own feelings at least as well as I could. He doesn’t have reblogs enabled, so I’m just going to slap the link here for public view. He’s also written some beautiful things about Western Europe, Rwanda, Egypt and Turkey.