Traveling, in true essence, is like reading the love stories of cities, villages and sometimes of their ruins, it’s about feeling euphoric for their fortune and mourning for their tragedy. Whilst traveling, you strive to find out about their past, present or perhaps attempt to picture how they might look like in few decades. Similarly every love stories start somewhere and leads to present, sometimes to a promising land, sometimes to ruins, consisting obstacles, uneven surface, just like, cities had affairs with its creators, protecters, attackers, traitors; it might have seen many best decades and suffered many centuries. What if it hadn’t any affairs, no historical events, nothing at all, just simple plain existence, would it still be considered travel worthy? Perhaps not, without memories, it means nothing. With memories, even a piece of paper becomes so precious that its value can’t be determined; whilst without memories, the whole world seems inconsequential. Each city, each village is a love story.
Bodhi tree in Korean temple, Sarnath
- written with phone -
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