athens: old wounds ancient ruins
if istanbul felt like living in the water of the wound - with despair so near that I could taste it, like sugar dissolved in a bitter tea, then in athens, the wound (and all its accompanying secrets) felt old; eroded by time. therefore, distant. that sense of history carries a silence inside. perhaps it is the colors of the landscape - like a desert, but with a softer sun, and the enchantment of mediterranean trees. or perhaps it is walking amongst the ruins of empires. I walk up the same hill everyday to see wide streets like deep cuts in the city, and the acropolis, like a two thousand year old memory. I walk with the awareness that everything — all wars and all loves - are already finished. gone, in the eyes of time. I am a heart living inside the silence of museums.