A quick thought on travel:
When you’re running, the demons are too busy holding on to remind you of why you left.
I’ve noticed that many of the expats I meet out here in Asia are running from something. Indeed, expats everywhere are probably running from something. Often, they’re running from inferior conditions back home hoping to find some greater sense of security than that of their home countries. But the American expats are not running from financial insecurity.
Americans always seem to be running from demons. There’s always some emotional baggage from which they’re trying to unchain themselves.
It’s easy from me to see it in others, but my demons are always hiding behind me — this is likely the reason we can see others’ demons directly, but our own we see only peripherally. From what I’m running, it doesn’t matter. Just like it doesn’t matter from they others are running.
Regardless of our demons’ natures, they ride us like jockeys. And we run like panicked stallions. At least the view is nice.
What calms the wild, indifferent night? What condenses untamed attention? In the swirling collection of conflicting desires, spinning around like June bugs on threads, it is music that releases all but one.
And with that one, no longer am I undone — at least, no longer am I hopelessly undone.
The trick is to pick music that doesn’t feed upon your pain. The trick is to pick music athwart your uncontrol. Pick music crafted for beauty; pick music crafted upon an ideal greater than the material chaos about you.
Otherwise, it is but the sound of your own captivity.
Hamlet is the story of a man named Hamlet.
The elusive haloes of utopia.