I can tell you about crystal lakes, about cliff faces so sheer you can feel them cut, about forests spreading darkly back from the water's edge, about watching lightning and storm clouds seep over peaks and run through the streets of a town several times older than my country.
I can tell you about returning slowly to consciousness, knowing without opening my eyes, just from the bird calls and the smell of salt, remembering the welcoming sun and smooth bright sand outside, knowing a place that's known me from before birth, rolling over to bury my face in the sweet curls next to me, anticipating morning coffee and poached eggs.
I can tell you about a craven, bloody headland, drenched in the fear and hatred of a people, raked continuously by cruel winds pushing towards the ragged teeth of rocks too old to care. I can tell you of the beach at the headland's base, guardian of happy times and the ghosts of friends.
The only true places are inside ourselves; we carry them with us, no matter where we holiday. My Brisbane consists of dots of light throughout my heart, connected in a web that tangles so many people I love. My Zürich is more sparse; it mostly holds a longing. My world entangles you all.
FK |