Day Trippin' and lots more

Blurry Spiritual Men on the Wicked Little Streets of Macleod Ganj

So here we were, a comic bunch, hurtling down the bumpy road in a claustrophobic bus. And I looked out of the window, amazed at the clichés that I dipped my head into. The wind in my face, the dazzling moon up above, the blurs of forests and stray people and dogs, the eclectic smells that wafted in and out of my nostrils….et cetera et cetera. We were on a vacation.
The place had a name, but we called it something else. It was like a billion other places we had been to, with our families and friends, but it was different because we wanted it to be. And the hippie lot of us weaved in and out of this little crystal maze of a town and let ourselves romanticize and dream and feel wonderful. We fancied ourselves as a bunch of hedonistic wildflowers….or something like that, when deep inside, we all knew what we really were…wallflowers, but of course.
But why scrape of the good stuff from the top? We felt good, and never mind the deep, dark, clawing feeling in our stomachs later on, further on, in a lonely room and all that and all that. We were, for the time being, in love with all things good and free and fun-loving. And the winds, inevitably, cried Mary.