Gran Canaria. 2024.
There are days when you delight in sunsets, sand between your toes and cañas on a terrace.
And then there are the other days.
The days that taste of leaving.
The ones when even dusk no longer carries hope.
Nor the rocking of the water under the rising sun,
nor the softness of the sun caressing the forests under the already heavy heat,
nor the pines drowning in hazy light,
nor the ochre mountain slopes
whose dry earth crumbles under the burnt trees of a decimated forest.
nor the softness of the sun caressing the forests under the already heavy heat,
nor the pines drowning in hazy light,
nor the ochre mountain slopes
whose dry earth crumbles under the burnt trees of a decimated forest.
Because you'd got used to loving
burning your feet on the black sand and your skin under the too-hot shower water,
dancing in front of the pinkening sky until the bar closes,
and even killing a few cockroaches every morning on the way to make coffee.
burning your feet on the black sand and your skin under the too-hot shower water,
dancing in front of the pinkening sky until the bar closes,
and even killing a few cockroaches every morning on the way to make coffee.
You'll have to give up those gasps of wonder
at every bend in the road that reveals a new mountainside,
a new cliff,
a panorama,
houses wedged into red rock
or the peaceful glittering of water at the bottom of the canyon.
at every bend in the road that reveals a new mountainside,
a new cliff,
a panorama,
houses wedged into red rock
or the peaceful glittering of water at the bottom of the canyon.
You'll have to find another sky to count clouds in
— to eventually conclude there are many.
— to eventually conclude there are many.
And then, finally,
in the hazy tiredness of a sunny morning,
you have to let go of the mountains stretching as far as the eye can see,
the sea in the distance despite the haze,
the roads winding along steep slopes,
the houses embedded in red rock,
the majestic, commanding mountains,
the arid, dry and rocky valleys.
in the hazy tiredness of a sunny morning,
you have to let go of the mountains stretching as far as the eye can see,
the sea in the distance despite the haze,
the roads winding along steep slopes,
the houses embedded in red rock,
the majestic, commanding mountains,
the arid, dry and rocky valleys.
You realize you'd grown fond of that little studio with white walls,
and even of the philosophical messages on the cheap decorative prints bought to "add some character".
and even of the philosophical messages on the cheap decorative prints bought to "add some character".
"Live, travel, repeat" they say.
If only they knew.
If only they knew the tears that refuse to fall even as you're torn from the only place you'd ever want to call home. That your heart hurts when you breathe.
If only they knew the tears that refuse to fall even as you're torn from the only place you'd ever want to call home. That your heart hurts when you breathe.
When the word 'over' finally hits.
Playa de Tufia, at sunrise. The silent sea and the particular taste of a goodbye you're afraid might be a farewell.