It has been beautiful to sit quietly down at that coffee along Pilies gatvė.
It has always been something he wanted to do.
Many times passing by he had seen people sitting there outside.
One day I will sit there having a coffee me too, like a tourist. He said to himself many times, every time he was passing by.
Why, he wanted that so much?
Well, he couldn't have that picture clear about that "Why".
His condition, he thought, was not far, he thought, far away from being a tourist. A tourist is far from his country and he doesn't belong to the place where he is. So, am I.
It has always been something he wanted to do.
Many times passing by he had seen people sitting there outside.
One day I will sit there having a coffee me too, like a tourist. He said to himself many times, every time he was passing by.
Why, he wanted that so much?
Well, he couldn't have that picture clear about that "Why".
His condition, he thought, was not far, he thought, far away from being a tourist. A tourist is far from his country and he doesn't belong to the place where he is. So, am I.
He thought it, while blissed by the unusual sun was sitting finally at the coffee, outside, like a tourist.
Blissed, was the right word. Every moment of those moments he was cherished in that pond of a midday sun was a blessing in which he remained immersed, as if seized by his inward explorations.
So, he lived lost to the sun, gripped in that malaise, where he knew he was in a no-where land, being dammed to cross that land where no bound, no ties, no belong-to is alive.
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