I want to run, run over fields and grass and through forests, I want to go and feel the wind in my hair, feel the hair beating my face, I want to tire my legs to the point when I don't feel them anymore and collapse; I want to scream over the ravaging ocean in order to mix my voice with the sound of waves of the sea hitting the shore; spin around until I see only golden points dancing around my head; I want to shake people and look straight into their eyes and maybe I'll see something I've never seen before, I want to ask them about this insane world, I want to see and know —
Can that tell something more? Will broaden our perspective? What do we know about ourselves? What do we want? What do we do here? We drink coffee, we have family lunches, drive cars, marry, argue, laugh... But...
"What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want?" She didn't know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.
[Jack Kerouac - On the Road]
I am lost in the eternal chaos of my spinning and frantic thoughts. Since ever. But there is some sense making your thoughts into a real chaos outside you — sometimes it really helps — sometimes it's really crazy — sometimes it's about just exploring life and it's boundaries.
(Photos were taken in Bretagne few days ago)
