Travel Journal Nine: Where Do Your Dreams Rest?

I've been sick for days. I've felt both unsteady and unsettled for the better part of a week. Yesterday I fasted for sixteen hours, partly by choice, partly due to circumstance. This morning I had largely recovered when I left Toluca for Mexico D.F.

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There's much I need to say about the strength of the thoughts and feelings I experienced between three and nine today. I'm not even sure how to punctuate the next few sentences, how to organize my ideas. My first contact with CDMX was visceral. From the moment I got off at the Observatorio bus terminal to when I arrived at my AirBnB by Condesa, and then later as I meandered through the streets from The Angel of Independence to a taco joint in the Zona Rosa, I felt inwardly home.

I love the nine-to-five-or-six end-of-day breath of a big city. The way people survive the grind with spirits oscillating wildly between bravado and despair. How its streets and avenues and boulevards and roundabouts and under- and overpasses, how its highways and sidewalks operate like veins or bodies of water, its particles largely indistinguishable if ultimately divisible.

Along my way, I saw a billboard depicting a single bird against a bright sky atop a building.
It seemed important.

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I walked for hours and have so much more to share - at least three dozen photographs, including several natural diptychs and triptychs.

But for now, this canvas upon which to project our dreams suffices.