I just sit here and smoke rollies because they remind me of home. We ate rabbit with garlic and chips an hour ago. A Canadian is fighting with a beige Labrador and I feel more full than I have ever been. Christmas is tomorrow and it will be another away from home but the first for many years alone. The stars are out but covered in sails of cloud, lit by orange lights from the city of Mosta in the distance. Today is good and I have a job at a bar now, but I wonder again about the moment I am in.
It is so easy to forget the past and the road behind us. But forgetting the past is to forget yourself and that’s why I’m smoking rollies. I remember the years before with a girl and last year with the best friends I know. All of them; the roads, the things they pass and the stops on the way. All of them are just like me. All of them are beautiful and terrible and just like me. Maybe dwelling on them is why people say forget the past. But forgetting the road behind is to be lost, while not knowing the one in front is to be an adventurer. Rain has made ash a scent in the dark and cooled the Maltese air. Mumford and Sons are playing on an Ipod and I can hear a German we call Jesus approaching the farm with a Polish women her mother named Monika. All of the best people I have met understand the past like reality and know the future is make believe, and realise we are made to believe it is everything, Nobody has travel insurance here. Everyone sleeps well. So I smoke rollies and think of the roads I have travelled, the places I have been and the people I have met. They are all the past and just like me.