When you go
to an island, you think of beach, palm trees, white sand and blue sea, of boats
and fishy markets, and small houses at the seaside. Clichés !
River. Sky.
Forest.
I could have a home in this small woody
paradise.
I could
write on the terrace, watching the sun rising beyond the mountains, a cup of decaffeinated
coffee on the table, and a stick of incense against mosquitos. I would play
with words and sounds, carving nice sentences to relate exciting stories, with heroines
and great escapes, grand adventures and beautiful landscapes, horse ridings and
treacherous schemes, lies and dissimulation, swords and poisons and… Oh, yes,
fantasy, of course!
Where a peasant child can become a squire, an apprentice,
or a singer, then Luck and Destiny would play with him, send him to war or citadel,
give him success, betrayal and despair,
force him to be better, braver, smarter, and become a human being. A true one.
Yeah, I
could write something like that in a beautiful place like this.
Or maybe I
couldn’t stop staring the beauty around and would do nothing! Just have baths
in the river, walks in the forest, paddle on the river, fishy meals for eating,
and days would run and run, without being monday or friday or anything with a name, just days…
Eternal
time on heavenly river.
