We sit and watch peach sunsets turn on a riverbank in Southern Africa. Tonight, we are not the same as we were when we climbed the old templed hill of Poseidon, nor when we walked the grounds of the grand mosque. The letters we write ourselves show us the shadows of our former selves– shards of intentions, pieces of resentments– now, somehow, all soldered together to make a stained mosaic– a window of insight worthy of a place of worship, an relic of self that seems to demand worship itself. We look on in awe, sheer wonder in our ability create and trace the grout around, and through, and over these once rough edges all the way back to the start, the initial pattern that would ultimately lead us to here, now: the moment we watched the oranging sun drown against the silhouetted trees of the Delta. What new shadows will this cooling sky provide us? Where will we take ourselves from here?
