andalucidity

mystical musings, random reveries and various writings from the sun-soaked south of spain

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Sleep well, sweet squid

washed up on the beach;
i held a small funeral,
offering my conch

2017

A new year. So out from the old. Leave your every comfort zone. Take off your shoes and venture into the tall grass, your feet as bare as unknown tundra. Let the new lands tickle your soles. Claim these lands. Found your first city on the bank of a great serpentine river or on the shore of an ever-moonlit sea. Build your city with love and sweat. And cry. This is important. Cry and crystallize your tears with whatever alchemy you prefer. Use these crystals to decorate your temple so that it will attract many a pilgrim and adventurers who’ll savour your summer wine while sharing their stories. Some tales will be epic. Some won’t. Maybe you’ll fall in love one night. Maybe you’ll fall out of love one day.

Doesn’t matter though. Nothing does.

Just be a king, queen or whatever.

It’s your fuckin’ birthright, darling.

An evening at the edge of a continent

’twas late sunset. I made my way down the hill towards the beach, arriving at the west-stretching boardwalk to a sky looking like this:

So that little mind of mine was what it always is when I see a sky like this: completely motherfuckin’ blown. Oh, the beauty! The indescribable beauty! It kills me. Cause I can’t express it in words. No one can. The Tao that can be named is, after all, not the eternal Tao.

So I kept walking (but now on the beach instead of on the boardwalk), trudging through the cool Andalusian December sand with the mellow moans of the Mediterranean in my wind-glazed ears.

The beach meandered, and so did my mind. Atlantis. Moorish moons (silvery crescents). Sevillan sweethearts in red-black dot-dresses. My friends who are still up North in the cold and the greyness. A christmas by the sea. The upcoming year. My innumerable and impossible dreams. My essence as a hopeless romantic of a hapless Hyperborean. The fact that everything’s essence-less in essence. Paradoxical. That I’m a blue-eyed paradox.

Then I saw the lights in the distance – the golden glow of Luna Beach. My destination. My Mecca. My Santiago de Compostela. By now all the stars were out (some albeit covered by odd-looking clouds).

By now I was starving.

 

 

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