The world is ruled by an invisible artist. We think. That must be the reason our veins are adapting to the climate, our insides being painted the colours of the ever evolving sky, shifting from golden dawns to the slow, pink drownings of the sun in the horizon. Because the artist has painted us into his masterpiece, it does take some time and countless miles to get how much bigger the world is than us. I don't think we've quite gotten it yet, or if we ever will. Than again, we're growing a personal, inside universe whose boundaries are yet to be defined.
When in Stone Town, the artist joins us in a cafe' by the waterfront, looking at the pink sun through the white sails of swahili dhows. The Zanzibari winds carry ocra dust and the smell of cinnamon and pepper and we're ideally resting on a gigantic December spice cake in space. But our bodies know, we're in Africa and it's the middle of June. Our thoughts are wrapped around us like thick, comfortable blankets. When we lie down on them side by side and look at the sun and the moon, both are so stunning and gigantic we can't tell the difference. He's mixing things up. He must be going mad.
Mushroom Farm wakes up at five in the morning to find us standing on the edge of a cliff, our lungs filled with diamonds. We watch the bright, blue lake Malawi being painted in a thousand shifting colours by the schizophrenic, genial artist. What we see steals all of the words we have in our mouths and behind our teeth and in the backroom of our thoughts. Even when the madman pulls out a revolver and opens up a thousdand holes in the sky, the only echo the valley can carry is silence. We taste the absence of speach and slowly sink into a world that doesn't need anything but light. We are bubbles of solitude that never burst, but eventually just melt into each other.
Tired of madness, the artist is lighting up the evening candles on Chizimulu Island with one hand, scratching the silver and gold off the sky with the other. We disappear behind a corner in our kayak, paddling it into the last whispers of daylight. The fishermen are waiting to build their ghost city at night, their floating pirate empire. They are slowly dragged away by friendly streams, and the sun's just another of their sinking ships.
The artist lies in bed and turns around to watches the back of his lover, the land of the thousand oddly shaped mountains. She's falling asleep, drawing a blanket of mist over her naked rocks and wild forests. So it's goodnight Mozambique, he whispers. Just like that. And some part of us, of our eyes are stuck there forever. We are breathing fully in this world a billion times bigger than us. Learning to draw endless frontiers around our tiny lives. Shaping infinity inside nothingness.
The world is ruled by an invisible artist. We think. That must be the reason our veins are adapting to the climate, our insides being painted the colours of the ever evolving sky, shifting from golden dawns to the slow, pink drownings of the sun in the horizon. Because the artist has painted us into his masterpiece, it does take some time and countless miles to get how much bigger the world is than us. I don't think we've quite gotten it yet, or if we ever will. Than again, we're growing a personal, inside universe whose boundaries are yet to be defined.
When in Stone Town, the artist joins us in a cafe' by the waterfront, looking at the pink sun through the white sails of swahili dhows. The Zanzibari winds carry ocra dust and the smell of cinnamon and pepper and we're ideally resting on a gigantic December spice cake in space. But our bodies know, we're in Africa and it's the middle of June. Our thoughts are wrapped around us like thick, comfortable blankets. When we lie down on them side by side and look at the sun and the moon, both are so stunning and gigantic we can't tell the difference. He's mixing things up. He must be going mad.
Mushroom Farm wakes up at five in the morning to find us standing on the edge of a cliff, our lungs filled with diamonds. We watch the bright, blue lake Malawi being painted in a thousand shifting colours by the schizophrenic, genial artist. What we see steals all of the words we have in our mouths and behind our teeth and in the backroom of our thoughts. Even when the madman pulls out a revolver and opens up a thousdand holes in the sky, the only echo the valley can carry is silence. We taste the absence of speach and slowly sink into a world that doesn't need anything but light. We are bubbles of solitude that never burst, but eventually just melt into each other.
Tired of madness, the artist is lighting up the evening candles on Chizimulu Island with one hand, scratching the silver and gold off the sky with the other. We disappear behind a corner in our kayak, paddling it into the last whispers of daylight. The fishermen are waiting to build their ghost city at night, their floating pirate empire. They are slowly dragged away by friendly streams, and the sun's just another of their sinking ships.
The artist lies in bed and turns around to watches the back of his lover, the land of the thousand oddly shaped mountains. She's falling asleep, drawing a blanket of mist over her naked rocks and wild forests. So it's goodnight Mozambique, he whispers. Just like that. And some part of us, of our eyes are stuck there forever. We are breathing fully in this world a billion times bigger than us. Learning to draw endless frontiers around our tiny lives. Shaping infinity inside nothingness.
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