How do I know I am actually here?
It is an odd question, I know. But sometimes I wonder how I know that I know that I know I am here, now, living, breathing, diving headlong into this life. I believe that part of the reason I journal, part of why I take pictures, part of why I blog is so that I have evidence that I am alive. That I am breathing. That I am fully here right now.
When I travel, I take photos of the bed I sleep in, the coffee cup at the cafe around the corner, the metro station sign, the dinner table at the home of a new friend after a sumptuous, two-hour meal, and the streets where I walk because when I return home I want to have proof of where I've been. Some of my favorite photos from my journeys are the simplest ones: the toothbrush by the sink, the left shoulder of my dearly beloved Antonio as he walks ahead of me, the lighthouse covered with graffiti overlooking the abandoned port, my skirt and belt laying on the other bed in the hotel room, and my spiral journal and my left foot in Madrid's Thyssen Museum.
I am here.
I am happy.
I am in love.
All is well in my world.