To my lost muse

Poetry apart, I really don’t know what to write and it’s not a temporary thing, it’s since I returned that I no longer catch inspirations…yeah thinking of it I’ve never had such a great artistic vein, and then “boom” all of a sudden, one night in a Hotel it manifested itself like a tornado of ideas that would keep me awake, writing about anything and the pleasure of directing that storm of emotions in to the screen of my laptop or the pages of my diary was impossible to describe, I had never had a taste of something like that before.
And the more I wrote, the more I wanted to write, till’ the point I couldn’t go anywhere without bringing some notebook to write on in my pocket, it often occurred in fact  that Ideas would lightning straight in front of my eyes, whether It was words, schemes, questions, sketches or something even more, independently from what I was doing or where I was going, and in this way I could make Immortal those escaping moments of Immensity.
One day walking trough the stalls of the night market, caught by an Idea I bought a straw hat, It was the mature state of my stay and I began to travel, I dressed up in simple clothes, a shirt, Bermudas, sandals to my feet, pack on my back and the straw hat on my head.
I made the train ticket destination: “Far away” and while that iron monster made his way trough the rice fields I looked at the changing landscape that flew under my very eyes which reminded me of a sentence read in a book whom title I had forgotten long ago:

“…because the ink of every journey lies within your blood…”

And I made the decision of beginning to write down my way in those pages that had always been updated since the very beginning, so the rice fields became slums and skyscrapers and night fell upon me , a chaotic night made of lights and roads, of smoke and bars, of voices and laughs.
I started to roam trough the alleys of that sprawling metropolis, without getting lost ,instead I returned to my inn right in time to enjoy the view from the 3rd floor of the beginning of a new day upon that maze of roads, buildings and electricity cables; I took a shower, I put my straw hat on the head and once more again I was sitting on a train talking with farmers, dreamers and women who had lost any hope and cried on my shoulder.
I stood some days in a southern sailor city, down there I met some girls who like myself came from the old continent and ended up in that tiny slice of Asia, those girls who were seeking the “Vida Loca” had been of inspiration for many pages of my journal, then alike every travel it came the moment of parting for different paths, they were heading to the metropolis, me, to Tortuga sailing on a pirate ship.
The days in that peninsula succeeded one another like a never ending flow, down there I learnt myself how to play with fire, to dive in a shark’s ocean, I was hated by someone and respected by someone other and I ended writing my story with my very blood,
One day then, I woke up in a Hospital, I identified faces whom got lost in the mists of my past, I touched my head and I could sense a long scar passing all the way trough my skull.
“Take the medicines, you’ll feel better” they said, so I finished my therapy and returned to an everyday life.
Many and many times I looked for my straw hat, but as it may seem I lost it together with my notes, and now I don’t know what to write…

--Hawke Isaacs