I am back from my journey, and the past I would make peace with was not there. It has moved on. I guess I should too.

My expectations encountered a reality that was so ordinary that it was beyond my imagination. I guess that’s this being an instance of “the exception that proves the rule” when it comes to “truth is stranger than fiction”, and yet not, for there was a string of bad luck in there that exceeded most other such strings, all at once.

The places were different, yet the same, and they were just places. That places are just places is something that I should know by now, I suppose, but to me, some places are sacred – but I suppose that is only to me that those places are, for my personal history is something that I suppose no one else provides santification for.

This trip wasn’t about me. It was about the past, and the future of the past. There is a future, for sure, but does the past have a future? Or is the past merely the past? The past I would have perhaps made some peace with this past trip both was and was not there, and so I both did and did not make peace with it. The past that I wanted to have a future, likely will not – and the past that I wanted to make more peace with, was not there to make peace with.

More clearly than anything, I see I must see the past not as that which made the past, but as my memories of it, and so must deal with them as such. This is not how I prefer to deal with such things, for by relegating them to be “just memories” they seem less sacred. They were special to me. I miss them, and more than anything, that’s why I’m not at peace with the past now.