I am hungry. Hungry for what?
A plate of potato wedges, a glass of pomegranate juice, a view of the dark mountains from the window?
Hungry for pale days, sitting and shouting for ideas on what to eat, food to satisfy this hunger. Hunger.
blissful energy at five thirty in the evening, three times a week.
A new place to be, breathing in the scent of a new order, a new discipline, a new kind of food.
Seven years ago, I realized while staring at the window of the living room.
I could not possibly sit in this room and stare at the blades of the cooler, attached between the metal frames. The cooler meant for cooling. And I meant for..
The quilt meant for warmth, the pencil meant for contact, for friction, the ball meant for movement and I meant and made for hunger.
Salt, paprika with salt, pepper and salt, and mostly sand with salt.
Eaten with pebbles soft and crusty.
Calm, the sea is calm, would you sit on its shore and gaze at her. But wouldn’t you do something to her? Give her something,
Do you not feel her hunger, her relentless need to move. To move with speed and passion.
While you sit and think and make sandcastles in your mind, she has left your gaze and reached another country and there near her shore, sits another hungry soul gazing at her.
But before he knows it. She has left. Her hunger quenched and she has already moved on.
To another hungry man waiting at the next shore for her.
While you are still sitting on her shore. Thinking.