Bagan is simply one of the best places in the world.
It’s like having all of York or Köln cathedral all to yourself. A thousand times over.
It’s peeking into hidden corners with a flashlight to discover nine-hundred-year-old monsters, Buddhas, Boddhisattvas, demons.
It’s touching bricks and carvings that have witnessed so much.
It’s breathing in the power of a million souls who have been there before, spellbound, terrified, or simply spiritual.
It’s the echo of your prayer bouncing off the tall brick corridors.
It’s the sweeping views, the lazy bells, the glimmering sun.
It’s magic. It’s the stunning details. It’s the sum of all. It’s the past. It’s the present.
I know I could or should be more specific. And I can recall three dozen temples with the details, and I could make a perfect 3-day itinerary for you, building up the tension and the awe.
But nobody is reading this blog anyway, and nobody cares about the stories of feud, treason, captivity, regicide, bloodshed, chopped off limbs, curses that are still hanging around, the mysterious caved in corridors and covered up statues, or practical tips about the e-bikes and restaurants, or whatever.
So all that matters is that I was happy there, three bright, sunny days, just keeping going until I dropped.
And yes, I was missing you. But even you will never ever care about that, I know. And much less anyone else.
I’m just scared that even in the happiest moments of my life I will be broken, because I will never stop missing you and wishing you were there.
Nothing I can do. Pray more.
Think of the hti that fell and miraculously didn’t hurt anyone.
Or anyone else who walks around with much bigger pain.
But I’m still stubbornly refusing to accept that this is all I’m left with, the Bagans, the reefs, it’s my fate to hover and smile and take pictures and carry the burden of unbearable magnificence and beauty.
What’s the point?