I put them in my laptop bag, in my camera bag, in my big jacket pocket. They always come with me. I have several notebooks, but only two are for travel. I try to keep up, but I can't. Important adventures are left unwritten, unchronicled. I write here and there, catching up long after the journey is finished and the comfort of my own bed is rediscovered.

I remember the hiss of the waves at night in Collioure, the detonation of colours that burst through India's ubiquitous haze, the damp quiet in the cellars of Champagne. Every step comes back as soon as I think back to it.

But I have trouble writing it.

It's like those images, memories, visions and experiences are like sea glass, or skimmers. They need time in the head to be worn, smoothed, softened and perfected in their shape. Pounded by the tumultuous waves of thought, worry and reflection until flawless, until every single syllable lies with the accidental perfection that comes with the musing of time.

Only after all that can they be written.

Either that, or I'm just too fucking lazy sometimes...