An intent of weeks long travel ends abruptly. From moving eastward, it turned to falling southward back to the start.

Read Derek Walcott’s fine piece on Antilles on the way back, this evening. If ever one was assertive, firm and incisive in the most elegantly soft and poetic manner, it is Walcott. He leaves me with this thought tonight –

“The traveller cannot love, since love is stasis and travel is motion. If he returns to what he loves in a landscape and stays there, he is no longer a traveller but in stasis and concentration, the lover of that particular part of earth, a native.”

Love is stasis, I hear him repeat.

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