There is a hill to the North of the town where I lived before that I liked to go to as a child. While standing there I could not stop thinking about the enormous space in front of me. There was nothing there, but it was not empty. Everything was electric. Energy from the lights and the people below seemed to fill the gap. Ideas and emotions flied around each other before finding their way back down to their owners who have not had time to notice they have been absent.
This was a really nice place to think. I remember that every time I went there it was like standing at the mouth of a cave made of cloud and earth that hides the city from the rest of the universe. From there, the river seemed nothing but a smudge at the bottom of the hill, and if you looked closely, you could almost see the water creeping along the bed like a snake trying to sneak away into darkness. I especially liked to come to that place after the rain, when the air smelled clean and crisp.
During those moments everything felt fresh, and like it might try to rain again; maybe leave a small puddle or two on the pavement. I remember that every time I went to the hill I was accompanied by the wind, which was blowing through the valley with force and power, as if a Greek god was common us. The wind was blowing my hair over my eyes and to the side of my face. Like shotgun blast dirt attempts to penetrate my eye balls but I automatically shut them ensuring the safety of my pupils.
I must admit that the wind was keeping the valley alive and restless and made me come to the hill again and again. When the wind was blowing like this I started to realize that nothing remains constant or the way it was before hand. I understood that I can watch the ordinary be rearranged and witness the rebirth of something that once was old. Nothing is attached in the valley, everything is just as unattached as gypsies who roam the country side liberated in their freedom.