It is so difficult to feel alert all the time, but then it is also difficult to even feel all the time. There is so much sameness in the beauty. Mountains, rivers, grass and water, they all feel the same, good. The sameness of beauty is taking me somewhere. Do I even want to go where it is taking me? Is drifting my nature if I am drifting intentionally?
I envy the man writing in his notebook as I type this. Why does he look closer to Nature, even though we are sitting on the banks of the same Salzach? Perhaps he is just pretending to be alive with that moldy pencil and a leather bound stack of leaves.
At the back, there is a kind of flea market. There are small huts selling the culture of some lesser civilizations. Why is there a stall selling Ganesha idols and Tasmanian devils there? My can of beer makes the same clinking sound as the wooden wind chimes on the stalls behind. I’m scared of a couple of bees. But that’s the price you sometimes pay, a pinch of blood and a week of itching pain for the luxury of grass under the open skies by the river.
The man writing with his fingers is now talking to the woman next to him. She seems too artificial and young for him. She is his reality and not that moldy pencil. Or may be I want it to be so. She makes my overtly beautiful reality more bearable. I have finished my beer but my thoughts refuse to take a break. Salzburg does things to me.
There are two giggly American girls soaking their feet in the water. Everything in the world is amusing to them. They say it has been too hot, the river runs low and the grass is turning yellow. Why is it that still Salzburg does things to me? The history, the building and the hills alive with Sound of Music are too familiar, like the taste of Apple strudel in my mouth. My mind is not a tourist any more. It belongs to a much better thought process. Wait, the thought process rather belongs to the mind. Salzburg does things to me. I didn’t know I missed you till I met you again.