my dreams are the confussion and sadness imbedded behind my trying-to-forgetness.

adventures between countries trying to prolong the 18th of April. the preparation of leaving. and then the not. the unpacking. the trying to find a headscraf or clean bra in the deep bag. the trying to process where we have been. and how we can go so quickly from a place still drenched in war and blood to a place shrouded in romance and art.

this is the contradiction of life. and the developed and developing world. we war between ourselves trying to justify why and how.

for a moment atop a snow mountian in Germany I glimpsed peace. reconsiliation. understanding. as quickly as I ran down that powdery mountian to the car, it was gone. the war we left seems to have snuck into my heart. it is a raging silent war (please read this).

the mark of greatness is brokeness. someone great once said this.

maybe it's the greatness that somehow comes from humility and we will never understand it. this brokeness doesn't feel like greatness.