I Would Stay and Love You, But This is My Station

June 14, 2013

I sit silently as the bus pulls out of the station, onto the streets of Galway, winding along narrow roads, past the charming little buildings, till, all at once we are driving straight through fields, meticulously section off by low-stone walls retaining memories of Ireland’s hard past; the British, the plague, unemployment and deficiencies.

The cold slowly creep out of my bones, as the heater on the floor of the bus starts to kick in.  Staring out the window, my eyes are set focused on the passing fields, and the infrequent sun that has decided to send me off on this early, boreal morning, but my mind is elsewhere.

My mind recalls the last three weeks that seem to have escaped me faster then I would have liked.  Even this morning has been fleeting.

Was it really just hours ago that I was sitting in my new Irish friend’s little smoke filled apartment, watching YouTube videos as Jane and I laughed and Marcello told stories of strange encounters at posh clubs in Dublin, or the crazy people he pierces at the tattoo shop.

Has it really been only a few days since Jane, Marcello, Kornel and I went on our spur-of-the-moment trip to Dublin, where we ran in the pouring rain to the bus station, and drank the way too sweet liquor we purchased and snuck onto the bus as it drove silently into the night.

Could it really have been a week since Kornel and I spent a lazy and prefect Sunday warm in his bed, laughing and flirting and making love while the sounds of rain and hail belabored the skylight of his costal Salthill apartment.  Was it really only an hour since he had kissed me softly goodbye at the door of the hostel where I had stayed and he worked, sending me off onto the dark, empty, rain splattered cobble stones of Quay street with the taste of his kiss still on my lips.

It had all gone by too fast.

Fleeting. Momentary. A transient place in time, that has been filled to the brim with radiantly incandescent memories, and people, and places.  Moments that mean more then the sum of all their parts because they are the authentic actuality of a purposeful existence outside the world of success, and strife, and all the things the “real world” seems to hold dear.

It is in these moments, the small and mundane, the familiarity of strangers, the love created without restriction, without fear or preconceived destination, it is in these moments we are truly alive.  And while I am sad to leave, I know my being, my very soul, has been changed for the better.

Erica
More about Erica

Erica is a Californian roaming somewhere in the wildness of the world. She is a writer and a researcher, a dirtbag and an explorer. Heart of the Nomad is her creative space to contemplate the complexities of life and share pictures and videos from adventures. Read more to be assaulted by random musings and poor spelling.

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