Looking out of the window, watching the days go by, and wondering if reality was as real as its name implied.  There was a slight reflection of myself in the window created by the glimmering yellow light bulb of the bed lamp.  The sea in the distance glowing the obscured light of a half moon and the skies as black as ever, with little white dots like salt flakes reflecting the few light that penetrates through the winter clouds.

There was nothing more than sheer silence, accept for the occasional squeaking of the doors from the neighbouring rooms and the soft synchronised sound of little droplets controlled, that seemed as if they could last for ever.  In the distance, planes crossed through the skies like shooting stars un-effected by the earth’s atmosphere.

My thoughts ran faster than my hands could handle and like alcohol evaporated through the midst of the night never to be thought about again.  I thought why it had to be misfortune or ill happenings to make me write. Why it had to be silence to drive my pencil to dance as if it were shy to be seen moving. Like a promising writer who writes then throws his notebook into the sea, so that only the crystalline water can feel his thoughts.

Just next to me is Einstein’s’ Biography and beneath that the National Geographic, looking at me as if questioning why they have been left un-opened for these last days.  Lacking the interest they remain untouched for my thoughts are elsewhere from the science of understanding matter or from comprehending the laws of relativity.  I am questioning what could be my endless search, or maybe just dreaming and looking out there hoping to find the answer.

I then hear a cry, a weeping sorrow, panic, and once again I fall into the pit of questioning, looking out towards what could be an un-answerable horizon.  There is nothing more painful than hearing sorrow here in my own silence.  So then just like religion I look out of the window to alienate myself, to cover my eyes from the reality behind me.  Questioning whether it is the host in me that wants me blind or the society that has bred me for so long helping me to become in such a controllable manner.

My reflection remains motionless as much as thyself and there I remained in silence.

Like footprints in the sand which slowly fade away, my thoughts swiftly flow through, whilst the wind blows my sun scorched face here in Golden Bay. The sea, symphonically rushing its way through the pebbles which rest upon the sea bed. Nothing to see accept the sun, slowly fading away in the horizon reflecting its warmth for the last moments of the day. I look up towards the skies, and all I can see is a tower, which like a chameleon has adapted to its surroundings maybe to protect itself, to survive through the turmoil of time and mankind’s greed for power.

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My current fixation with doors has dragged me down once again to Valletta, and for another time I have discovered new angles, new sides which hath remained in the dark for all the time when I visited. Today the light sheds from the warmth of the “lanterns” that have inspired me to look within even further. Accompanied by two friends to observe or appreciate further the magnificence of this place we moved along the narrow streets.

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In here like an ant I rest, until the next stop, meters below the ground, I travel looking at them who in turn look back to me. No one to talk to, no one to smile to. An individualistic life, a being, a breeding host, traveling together and apart, at the same time.

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I met a pebble on the beach, who related her story, “I have traveled for so many miles”, she said, “but still remaining in the same place, today I rest here on this soft comfortable sand, cuddled by the suns’ rays, today I met you, why don’t you tell me your story”.

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I walked without a destination but only a direction, driven to an unknown place. And I walked until I heard nothing more than the whistling sound of the wind and the crushing waves against the rock beneath me.

I looked out towards the horizon and there was nothing accept the dividing line between the sea and the sky. Then I looked behind me and again there was nothing accept the storm that had yet to come. It would have rained but not yet, no the heavy clouds shall wait until everything was clear. They waited for the right moment.

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Was it a dream, I ask and now that I think of it, am I awaken or am I dreaming of being awaken, and thus eluding myself of being awake, eluding myself into a world of surrealism. I realized that my strengths were also my weaknesses and beliefs were also my un-answered questions. I found out that the cliff that held the bastions has now crumbled down like a wall of sand. I find out that the tree I once looked at, so strong and resilient is now nothing more than a petal, so fragile so frail. It was like a storm building up far out at sea but then turning out to be a ripple in a fish tank. Does it make sense to fall back in the dream and start all over again or is it better to grief and live an awaken existence?

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