Mediterranean

0
242

White houses here and there, this typical postcard from your seaside, the houses’ lights switched on, the walls’ white colour harmonising with the clothes hung out. Fine sand on the beach, the path back to home after an exhausting beach day, children playing, waves, the sun. All of this does not exist anymore. There is no longer light along the shore, you switch off the lights so that you cannot be found, you whisper and hide. Now, you hole up. COWARD.

When the sun shines, there is normality everywhere. In the early morning, you pick up what waves have brought to the shore since it is required to become bright for tourists. Have you noticed that what waves bring are dreams? I’m going to tell you a story. One of those stories born of remote and eastern lands, with streets full of stands and spiced smells. Imagine, envisage a desert: “They were hardly able to step on the dunes. They were four silhouettes on a truly big desert. Three and a senior that were near their destination but not aware that they were just starting. Imagine their feelings when regarding the sea. Like the child who carries the bucket, the rake and the spade on his first summer day. Step by step, they thought.

They spent three months looking for the courage to go in the scarily narrow and flat boat”. The story continues, although is about to finish. You already know what happens afterwards as it is constantly covered by the news. Some of those stories have a happy ending, and some others are just sad stories. In our story, the hearers’ faces are also sad as they watch the end and just shrug.

White houses here and there, normality here and there, shame and hypocrisy here and there.

Hot days have become cold, vast and dark. You do not play to catch crabs anymore. Now, you pick up dreams, those dreams from stories that we are sometimes told.

Traducción por Llorenc Crespo.

Compartir
Artículo anteriorThe day after my talk (or “The decision I’ve taken for my future self”)
Artículo siguienteLas semillas más saludables
Jairo Martin
Jairo Martín nacido en Valladolid, España en 1992. Cursó estudios de filología hispánica en la Universidad de Valladolid. Es profesor de español como lengua extranjera y escritor por obligación. "Es la pluma intrépida quien me obliga a emborronar de sueños páginas en blanco". Viajero infatigable en busca de nuevas aventuras, culturas y defensor de los derechos humanos y la justicia.

Dejar respuesta

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here