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| Borgatti |
Patrick’s
last trip took him farther into inhospitable lands, where the line between
life and death was barely visible. He had travelled the world all his life, yet
the final challenge, he thought, was to go back to that first feeling of
triumph, of heroic discovery. As fragile as everything seemed to be, his plans,
his trip, his health, he was determined. The flight took many hours, the car
ride a handful of tortuous fights against gravity’s merciless determination.
The worst was the walk, miles and miles, through tropical jungle, constantly
tripping over nature, struggling to overcome feverish thoughts about unreal
certainties and long lost recollections. Patrick knew he would succeed. He knew
he would reach his goal, and the goal was nothing more and nothing less than to
wander about with an apparent plan that in reality was just a broadly defined
destination. What caught Patrick off guard was the fact that unknowingly his
wanderlust turned into a straight line between his past and his present, a trip
to see his lifelong friend Tom who had stayed all these years in the jungle.
Patrick, the archeologist, was going back to see Tom. Sometimes home is not
where we were born, where we bought a house, where we have lived for ages.
Sometimes home is a hug from an old friend.
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