Poverty of Imagination

The golden sun dissolves into the forest which now looks like a painting. Warm wind kisses the cheek and tingles with her open hair. I lie down on the soft green grass with my friends. we listen to machine-made music from Britain. The air is crowded from the smoke of Davidoff. The mountains somehow resemble the folds of her frock.

I look at the sky, faces of the people, trees, water from the river, manicured grass, beautiful hedges I feel as if all these things are for me.

I'm thankful that this place is not ruined by digitally enhanced versions.

I ignore the things I have read against travel in general written by opposing philosophers:

“travel narrows the mind.”

“a fool’s paradise.”

"Only extreme poverty of the imagination justifies having to move around to feel."

Frankly, I'm not the one who mentions "traveler" or "travel lover" in my bio, nor do I proudly say "I love to travel" when someone asks about my hobbies.

I tell myself "It's okay to be drunk and high"

More music, more smoke. Today happiness doesn't have an expiry date and time, and it feels good to be alive.

Amidst all this, I ask myself the same question as elizabeth bishop asks in Questions of Travel: "Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?"