A lighthouse near Conil de la Frontera
Andalucia
Spain
Spain
Dear o,
Four fingers of hazy light stab out onto
the black ocean, swing from right to left, disappear into the tumbling
countryside, and return again to guide the ships around the point. There are only a few out there, tinkling
lights to compete with the stars. We are
parked behind the lighthouse, snug against its wall and out of sight from the
passing traffic. The night sky is more
than clear: it is cut open, leaking itself onto the earth. The pointing beams of the simple and silent
stone tower are like a spinning shield.
It makes me feel like the heavens will fall on our heads if we venture past
all the vigilant fires of humankind. I
know it’s ridiculous. We don’t have the
shoulders of Atlas, nor the fingers.
It’s just a feeling.
Yours,
QM
