I stand transfixed, a vibrant display of colour adorning the pale rock in front of me. Behind me, my recently acquired American friend is asking me something but I am completely oblivious, attempting in vain to piece together the story laid out before me on this natural tapestry. We had left behind the Pyramids in the heart of Cairo for this beautifully preserved temple in Abu Simbel, and I remained in my wide-eyed existential crisis.

More than 3000 years have passed since the questionably treated artists painted these sequences. How much bloodshed, suffering yet concurrently the joy of human evolution has gone on in the background whilst this temple stayed steadfast? I clutch a flimsy plastic bookmark I relinquished my remaining Egyptian pounds to a child for at the entrance. One can possibly brush off the hordes of men trying to pawn off various cheaply constructed trinkets, but how could I say no to a child? He looked drained, a largely fruitless day in the hot sun if his large stack of bookmarks was any indication. I will never see him again, never to know if there was a happy end to his story.

I love the anonymity of travel. The floating through, where your own life is put on pause whilst you briefly immerse yourself in what is mundane for the locals. In New York- a hot dog from one of the countless stands is fresh, exciting, semi-exotic, to a New Yorker it is just a quick snack before long work day. And don’t get me started on the contrast between CityRail and the London Tube…

Back home in Sydney, I find myself at a bustling shopping centre. I had come merely for a quick take-away bite after a cricket match but found a welcome distraction. An understated toy shop, nestled adjacent to the sprawling Kmart. I gingerly enter, eyes wide yet again, however this time not due to the beauty of Egypt but for memories coming flooding back. Post preschool I was in the exact same spot, picking out the next Thomas the Tank Engine to add to my burgeoning collection. My patient Mum, along with occasionally my grandparents and great grandma, happy to sit back as their kid made his choice like he was inspecting an investment property. But now I stand alone, the engines nestled in a box in the garage, but the people long gone. It is in places like these where memories can protude in full colour- albeit the rebranding of the toy shop. “Can I help you with anything?” I snap out of my slumber and pick out an eclectic Pac-Man Chicago Bulls model, coincidentally from the same area as my beloved engines once were stacked. The box is still unopened but the sentiment significant.

I cruise up the M1 to a familiar spot, Anzac Bridge in the heart of Newcastle. Years ago I sat watching the waves crash against the rocky shore with a long-lost friend, in a late night adventure to talk through the gloom. I see her face shimmering on the water, a calming silhouette drawing me in.

A bookmark lies crumpled on the shore, its cheap parchment no match for the rolling waves.