It is already september and the air is thick with anticipated winter. Life moves in thick, halted pauses here, no sudden thrusts or wayward movements. I am climbing to waterfall number 5 through barren arid paths and rocky outcrops, like a lizard. My guide, Kemal, who probably is twelve is much more agile. On our path, we pass a wailing woman attended by others after she tore open the sole of her left foot. But other than that, it has been peaceful.
I reach a panaromic point and look around. All around me is waves of undulating mountains. I can hear the waterfalls below me and from somewhere far, comes a faint wave of an Arabic song. down at the village, at the foot of the mountains, I imagine the Berbers are still moving about in their donkeys as I saw them earlier in the day.
Suddenly I remember I haven't written anything in a long time. Not just blogs, but anything. When i don't write, I don't know what to do with all my feelings. sorrow. Melancholy. Joy.
But here I remember that all I need to do is to open my eyes and listen. Words will come flying down from their coops they abandoned me to. And they come like that, I write.
Thank you Cascade Number 5.
