Marseille, It's A Sunday

Marseille, it’s a Sunday

the last two days a blur

City streets awash with lifes' debris

tourists walk idly by

rubbing shoulders with the fallen

warriors in any other time but now


Street lamps at night brighten the sorrow

needles shake from vein to vein

A scent, sweet and dangerous, pungent to those less cautious

swallows me whole


I find nostalgia in the chaos, the dirt, the boission which acts as a ritual, a reason to meet, empty glasses of thé a la menthe litter doorways as artifacts of a moment in time where people connected and the sweet, refreshing taste drifted them to the beauty of their childhood or the horrors of mistrust


Sat in Restaurante Ghomrassen with an almost empty bowl of couscous legumes I feel my love for travel start to creep up on me once again

it’s the all consuming sense of being in a faraway land, the romanticised ideal of 1920’s explorers in Tunisia, Algeria, off the roads and into the dust, that sense of being so far removed from the comfort and normality of the street I was born satisfies my deep need for adventure

for losing the ideas of who I am and finding love in the everyday interactions of my species


Marseille, France // 16"08”15

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