I feel a presence. The same kind of subtle cover on your skin, barely felt by your little hairs , like a silken soft invisible blanket surrounding your body , that one feels when thinking of the beloved. The presence of the beloved, this is what happens to you when you are in love.
But who is he? Always there, asking nothing , taking everything and giving me a silly kind of happiness and serenity that has no reason at all.
Coming down the winding stairs of the mosque like the proverbial drunk in a Rumi poem, swaying, tumbling from one side of the rail to the other. And noticing the subtle grin on everybody's face who walks by on his way home from the marbled porch.
And it is not even full moon, in fact, I see no moon at all.
I want to go to Chefchaouen and be surrounded by blue. Walking in blue, thinking in blue.
Blue is a color that brings you closer to God, I read, and that is why they built it. The reason is forgotten now but still everyone paints their houses blue.
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