I saw two dimensional shots of you in front of some historical monument, wrinkles in your eyes as you battled the sun rays. I read the comments under your photo filtered images, sepia tinted and rosy streaks, loving your looks and pose. I heard your lists of landmarks and exotic cuisine, your addresses of international fashion franchises, your piquant remark of the continental weathers. You checked in at all the right places, a sentient heading for show.
Why can't you sit with me, and tell me how the air smelled. Was it tinted with the delicious, succulent aromas of sausages from street vendors? Or was the air chiding and cold, cracking ice on your cheeks and rustling your coats? Tell me what you heard; the distant echoes of metal dustbins being thrashed around, the rumblings of dusty construction sites, or sweet eloquent music at the grand opera?
Tell me of that time when your friend ate that local chili, and how his face turned scarlet as he spluttered and coughed out curses. Gesture to me with your hands, how the people in the villages talked, in their loud obnoxious accents, with passion firing in their figures. Tell me what it felt like to have your mother by your side, as you walked on tired, blistered feet through foreign streets. Did you feel the warmth of the sun as it sunk beyond sandy mountains?
Show me more than a rough two minute video, the beaded bracelets you bought from a store, the names of the international brands there. Show me more than the high definition photos in your dazzling coloured phones, thousands of them, the ones without captions, without aims. Why are you reducing your memories into mere pixels and bytes? Regale them to me with your fingers, with your voice, show them to me with all the adorations of an explorer.
I want to breathe in the details and lived where you were.
Why can't you sit with me, and tell me how the air smelled. Was it tinted with the delicious, succulent aromas of sausages from street vendors? Or was the air chiding and cold, cracking ice on your cheeks and rustling your coats? Tell me what you heard; the distant echoes of metal dustbins being thrashed around, the rumblings of dusty construction sites, or sweet eloquent music at the grand opera?
Tell me of that time when your friend ate that local chili, and how his face turned scarlet as he spluttered and coughed out curses. Gesture to me with your hands, how the people in the villages talked, in their loud obnoxious accents, with passion firing in their figures. Tell me what it felt like to have your mother by your side, as you walked on tired, blistered feet through foreign streets. Did you feel the warmth of the sun as it sunk beyond sandy mountains?
Show me more than a rough two minute video, the beaded bracelets you bought from a store, the names of the international brands there. Show me more than the high definition photos in your dazzling coloured phones, thousands of them, the ones without captions, without aims. Why are you reducing your memories into mere pixels and bytes? Regale them to me with your fingers, with your voice, show them to me with all the adorations of an explorer.
I want to breathe in the details and lived where you were.
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