Earthen floors, maybe clay
even. Lamplight, flickering but not eerie, casting warm shadows on uneven stone
walls, smooth to the touch nevertheless. Inside the room, the lamp makes
everything yellow, orange, amber, brown. Its light is bright enough to make the
outlines of the objects in the room visible, but not bright enough for
individual colours, textures, to be seen clearly. A thin curtain separates this
little oasis of light from the rest of the world. Outside, the night
hasn't yet surrendered to dawn and the sky and the world shift between shades
of blue, as if uncertain whether it's time for light or darkness. There are no
trees outside, only bare mountains, rock and stone, but beautiful in a hard way
and not inhospitable. Inside, on the cool floor, a cold breeze rippling
across the room, I sit cross-legged, covered with some kind of dark, woollen
shawl or robe, only my face uncovered as I drink hot, spicy, unfamiliar tea
through a small earthen pot.
For years, this image has fixed itself in my mind.
Where it came from, I cannot say. Perhaps from a short movie clip watched
between those forty winks. Maybe a figment thrown to my ever curious mind to start imagining something new. I don't know where it springs from, but it stays
and it fills me with a longing I can't describe. It makes me want to go to places
with exotic names like Samoa and Casablanca. Hell, even the mountains will do at this point. But I won't get that tea, will I? Will I?
I need a vacation.
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