post-title The old lighthouse.

The old lighthouse.

The old lighthouse.



The days pass one after another, the sunken void left by the surreality of it all is slowly filled with the acceptance of a new reality. These strange streets slowly turn into a common sight, its touch becomes a familiar grasp, its landscapes now live in my memories, sparks of wonder decay faced with the certainty of remembrance.

We arrived at La Desaladora, I’ve been here, this painting-like blue canvass is an experience already lived, its spell is lessened, lost in the pages of stories told. We walked four kilometers, lengthened by the constant struggle of the sand,  hugging, pulling us, slowing our pace, making sure that we felt every step, making its will our path.

The old Lighthouse, a silhouette severing the landscape, a sight of a world lost in memories and tales, a shadow of what is no more, looking at me, looming, judging. Here lives a ghost, the oldest soul you can visit, I try to reach it,  to tap into the history of this land, but it won’t let me, it reminds me of my misplaced soul. I reach the top of the hill just to see it face to face, I look at the abyssal umbral of its door’s shadows, begging for the acceptance of a familiar place, but when the abyss looks back I just feel coldness, a distant glare. A detached acknowledgment of my presence, a vain smile, almost mocking when it tries to be kind. It forces me to look back to the path that I must follow, back to the sand and to the too well-known sun. My feet echo a trail that leads only to sorrow, these dunes will never take me back home.

Why is this nature not reaching my soul?

Why do I feel so alone?

Why is this knowledge so rooted in my soul?

I’ll never be back to the place I called home.


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