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I live in a place full of anguish and despair. Where the weather is never jubilant. Everyday is a constant battle against the gale forced frozen winds incoming from the Atlantic. The ceaseless ringing that overcame in every direction of everyone in a hastiness to get to where ever they need to be. There is never a sole moment in which we have time to tranquilize and breathe. Not even in our own homes; as there is always homework to be done, a room to tidy, a match to play.
. the list is unfathomable.
However there is one time in which I could seize the day. Where I have all the time in the world to just perceive my surrounds and appreciate my surrounds. I have a beautiful view; it’s the main thought that runs through my mind as my eye travels across any part of Mazarron, where I travel to every summer.
My mornings begin as I pull back the sheer white curtains of my room.
Struts of early morning sunlight temporarily blind me as I do so. Nothing beats the sound of awaken to the hums of all the bees bumbling around and the chirps of the exotic birds that sit on my window still each morning. The tranquility and placid atmosphere of Spanish mornings simply adds to the beauty of my summer morning view. This is without a doubt my most cherished place in the universe.
Its not long before the rest of my family awaken, so every morning I would find myself on the balcony with the a book on the wooden coffee table sitting beside me.
As I daydream and admire the contrasts of the sceneries taking place around me without any interruptions, I am entirely buoyant.
To my right hand, is the view of the colossal vacant land, filled with nothing more than its ancient dust and deserted plants scattered out. As I look out and pay attention to subtle details. The view of an oasis on the horizon consistently waves above the gritty, dry sand. Trees that look like they belong in the Sahara are spaced out, spreading across the perimeter of the dehydrated field. The vivid colour of green from the trees are impossible to go by unnoticed in comparison to the dusty gravel that surrounds them. In the far left hand side there is a brick house, with nothing left but its ruins and a rotting wooden plank laid across its remaining roof. I would imagine that the house was an indefinite brick red colour in the past. Occasional tumbleweeds would catch my eyes as they aimlessly shuffled across the dehydrated open land.
At my left, is the view of a mountain covered in dry grass, weeds and coarse sparse bushes dotted around. Stood before it, a mammoth of Spanish country houses within our estate. Throughout the day, I would often notice people hiking up its unleveled gravel as the fever of the sun beamed down on them. A lonely eagle like bird would spend its days circling the peak, dominating its land. As the sun sets behind the mountain, the most beautiful view to occurs each summer evening. An array of warm purple, pink, orange and yellow tones gradient between one and other, lighting up the entire sky for miles upon miles. As the time passes it fades into its darker shades and the glimmer of the stars and moon appear.
As I arise from my seat on the balcony, I spot the motorway further right to the deserted land. Memories come back from previous road trips from the past five years. I was always fascinated how you could be driving for miles upon miles with nothing but the view of continuous vineyards. As I gazed out the window onto the country side, the flickering of the sunset through the struts of the fence would soon settle me into a deep sleep.
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