November 18, 1887
The captain put us off the boat on the west coast of Africa where we explored for days looking for provisions. The journey has been a nightmare until now. Hunger and thirst consumed our frailties to the point of our disappearances. I search for meaning every moment of every day as I watch my teeth drop out upon my bloody pillow. The dream time is better than wake time. Days we walk searching until we can search no more.
If we had gone aboard the balloon to sail for 80 days the only difference would be time for we would be exactly where we started. Around the world would still be a promise of that dream, of what might be, instead. This Nordic blood within my veins longs for the smell of pine and my eyes the sight of pure white snow.
For the love of Mondays,
xoxoxo Wanderlust Bird
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