Istanbul, Revisited

And like that, Jerusalem is behind me. I'm walking my way out of the labyrinth, and I have a lot waiting for me when I finally get back where I started. Only it doesn't quite work that way, does it? It's more like a spiral than a circle; something is still gained...

Even if it's not what I went looking for. High expectations are dangerous things. But I started the quest, and things happened, and the ripples of revelations will keep coming to me long after I've returned. It'll be years before all this makes sense to me, and I've become comfortable with that. No lightning bolts, just echoes in a comfortable dark.

So, if no one objects, I think I'll continue to change a little once I get back: in small degrees, in tiny twists of personality, in the kind of subtle shifts that separate art from attempt. I have this image in my head, burned in like a retinal flare, of the man I want to be. I've flexed my will a bit on this journey, and I've felt my intuition stretch out. I just need to grow into this wider spirit.

I need to get in character and keep living this personal story. Everyday. This path closes behind me, but paths open up ahead. And like a fractal pattern, infinitely rich with detail, all is the labyrinth... all is the story.

Tomorrow that story takes me back to Florence, if only for something of an epilogue.