This story begins in the hills .The hills of my memory. Mingling with lost hopes and dreams they form a patchwork blanket that like a shroud, wraps around me.
It begins with the feel of rock sprouted stream water flowing over my feet and the feel of smooth cold pebbles under.
My world was different then. I believed that magic could happen in the hills. The mist, the moss, the brown rocks, the old forgotten temples, all whispered messages to me. If, that long time ago, someone had asked me the meaning of happiness, I would for sure have told them. But no one asks a 17 year old the meaning of happiness.
Lying on my back at night, feeling the chill creep up my spine through my sleeping bag, I reached out and held the million stars that filled every inky black apace above me.
……..and so those memories wind themselves around my present , as I flip through albums of photos you have taken of your beloved hills. You go there often and speak to me of the hills as if it is I, not you, who went there.
But I am not 17 anymore and sorrow has replaced happiness. Silent tears fall into the streams you speak to me of. You bring back with you the heady scent of the pine trees but I am unable to take them in. The stars you traced patterns out of have forgotten that I once held them. Only the chill remembers and makes me tremble with an unbearable grief.
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