Monday, December 5, 2011


"Once you pass the border, it just gets different. The cliffs are rougher, the vegetation more torn. Trees, grass and weeds are brittle, battle-used soldiers. Planes hold their last leaves into the surprisingly warm December sun, overshading squares and streets, houses and sheds. All of them have seen better days. On and on passes the landscape in front of the window. The colors of vegetation and buildings, of tracks and rivers, stones and even of the clouds and the sky are muted, overcast with a dusty shade of grey, almost like the lens of an oldfashioned camera. Only the freshly turned soil of cypress-lined fields glistens red." 

 "You are moving here." I tell myself. My head understands, but my heart is still that of a visitor. And somehow I hope that it will stay that way. I still hope that I will be able to keep the dreamy realities of my childhood; all the hopes and stories I have created here. All the emotions that weave themselves through the landscape, turning it into my special paradise on earth. 


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