We’re all someone’s supporting characters
Someone once said that language is a dusty, warped window-pane. The clear light of our thoughts is twisted. We can never communicate perfectly. I jest and you bleed. You reconcile and I am offended. If the human race ever dies, our gravestone will read, Why couldn’t they just listen to each other?
I stood, slightly bewildered, on the docks. It’s impossible not to be, when you’re a foreigner. Which I am. The Balkans are deep. Their history, their culture, their secrets. Their anceint feuds. So deep that you could swim forever, always seeking something elusive, looking for the secret soul that is always just out of reach. […]
After I came back from Macedonia I started having nightmares. I cannot completely describe them; but they always began in a familiar place, and ended in a twisted half-reality, and never could I spot exactly when it changed. The worst of it was seeing it flicker into real life. We were on the camping trip, […]