I just realized something magic about myself, my physical self. Apart from my underpants, there is nothing on me or at me, that I wear, that’s actually from me. My own. Everything was given to me. Everything belonged before to someone else. Everything has it’s own story, awesome moments and a person who was their first owner. People. People as unique as each and envy sand corn on the beautiful planet. Theirselves. Their lives. Their stories. They all of them let me became part of their lives, their moments and were walking with me a little while on my path of life and mystery. We shared moments. We shared time together. Every single piece of the cloth I am wearing has it’s own story, person, happiness and love. Every single piece of cloth I am wearing I wear with memory and honor to those people, the belonged to before.
There is my grey single top that was given to me by my Miss Brighton. We traveled together in India from the green tea and hilltops in the far south to the the sandy beaches of Goa. There is my green west I got on the sunny hills of Nepal, where I spend one of my best travel times on a organic farm. A time that is still pulsating in my veins, when I remember them. There are my short pans I found on rocky scooter drive in the wilderness of Thailands north. I was picturing those pans for a while and there the were hanging lost and forgotten on a tree. They were waiting for me. There is my pair of shoes someone forgot in Australia, in the hostel where I stayed, just to the time where I urgently needed shoes, because my one I gave a way to a shoeless boy in the rainy and slummy streets of Kathmandu. There is my hair ribbon I talk from my friend in Alice Springs as a steady reminder. We drove together from Alice Springs to Darwin. We drove together to the stars and back.