Remembering the night I wrote this / inspired by a delish bottle of red (Brand’s Lair) x
Does where we come from say more about us than we think? Is our journey pre-determined in a way that eventually sees us do full circle? Not necessarily physically, but metaphorically?
The land of our childhood speaks a language so intrinsically intertwined in who we are that when we step foot there, words do not always suffice as a valid form of communication.
It’s in the air. The light. The scent. The people. The sounds. The memories triggered by senses, and cues, that our conscious mind forgot – long, long ago.
Little moments creep back in – little parts of that child and his, or her, wild and pure nature. Gently curious, daringly fearless, barefoot, scantily clad, beautifully unassuming. That child still speaks, quietly, if you dare to listen. That child still exists, in even the oldest man, or woman, if they dare to listen.
How much could that child…
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