A Hymn

I don't follow a Bible, but if I did, I imagine it would be Lonely Planet's guide to every country in the world. I don't know the exact title. This is because the book and I keep a certain distance apart, so people won't ask questions. When I visit the Muhlenberg Bookstore, we (the book and I, that is) act like adulterous lovers suspended, vulnerable, trapped at a public crossroads. Can't look. Can't touch. Not when anyone's looking.

How odd. It's not like it's an embarrassing book to be caught with, indubitably verisimilitudinously. But it's almost like I don't want to violate the book. I hold it, in my mind, and I am traveling though Greenland (people do live there, you know), the Falkland Islands, Somalia, and the Federated Islands of Micronesia, my hometown. It's like a jet plane, in my hands, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for even the voyeuristic pleasure of exploration. It is my dream to visit every country in the world, but with the achievement of that dream comes, I believe, a necessary disappointment. What now? No longer will I sit, wondering idly and ignorantly about Norwegian fjords. Iceland is, at present, walking the border of my preconscious, on tip-toes. No, pointe shoes. Just as delicate as the ice that stings your fingers violet when you touch. If I hop on the next plane to Reykjavik, gone are the fragments, the mosaics, the pink silk threads of baseless imaginings and icy heat. So don't look. Don't touch.