I was thinking about hostel nomads today as I walked down the mountain side towards the town of out-of-season christmas cheer. So many people that I've met and others have too. So many different dog-eared books that carry themselves around with their dirty knee-worn jeans. Will I ever see them again? That's the question. You seem to farewell the people you've met only hours ago as if they were long lost friends that you hadn't seen for centuries. It's funny: in the real world of city life and blank glances thrown around on clattery streets, one just takes a single look at a person and dismisses them like they're just another granule of sand on that grey beach. But in hostel, it seems like every thread of flesh has a red novel that they hold in their ribs that you want to read. Tell me everything about yourself.
- Your name.
- Your country.
- Your favourite music.
- Why are you here?
It's hardly interrogative. Somehow you can do all of that without a spring loaded bedside lamp and a husky, harsh voice. Why is that? I love it though. Nobody is afraid. Those streets are lost memories that are indefinitely washed away by melting snow. I'm interested in your story if you're willing to share it.
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