Thursday, May 30, 2013


I could describe this country in the warm romanticism and mysticism of a benevolent traveler, who has something important to describe about quaint places, breathtaking nature, people, their warmth, beauty and other things. But maybe because of preceding events that will not be recounted here as they would defer from the theme, and maybe precisely because I had no emotion either of excitement or foreboding about this trip, I feel the urge to be true to myself and the thought that compelled this article. Sometimes the most abstract things explain more than the gloss of articulate words that mean nothing, except make the reader happy, feel in awe and live through the writer through his selfish pleasures and inconsequential dreams

It could not be a coincidence that I lived through the soul of Howard Roark, at the same time that I reached this country, in all its beauty and glory, so innocent; that you expect all the struggles they have to face. It is peaceful and terrible in its beauty and serenity; an almost childlike and tragic wonder at change and progress. You immediately want to protect everything in this country, even the brutality of the strife, just to feel the rawness of human life frozen in one endless moment.

You want to keep experiencing the simplicity of treating everyone through how they know to live life, their poverty neither a badge of self righteous honor, nor a shameful yoke to slink from. I do not know if I love this country, most of us anyways make the mistake of defining lust and desire as love, love turned to a stamp of approval for the baser desires. But I do know that the country touches you, not in a beautiful postcard kind of way, but in a more basic impersonal understanding and grave recognition of humanity.