Iceland, by Eugenio Montejo, describes a sensation or even a way of being alive. It is a way to be and no to be; it is feeling in the midst of being rooted or uprooted, a desire to be while being and not being at once.
Iceland is a meeting point, a place to kick the table, to break schemes (or put them back together) Iceland is a need born from four hands, which can, like everything, end up with a hundred of them, or simply end.
Iceland is and it is not. It is a Caravan that passed. It is an intimate, yet shared, space.
Iceland is a meeting point, a place to kick the table, to break schemes (or put them back together) Iceland is a need born from four hands, which can, like everything, end up with a hundred of them, or simply end.
Iceland is and it is not. It is a Caravan that passed. It is an intimate, yet shared, space.
La eterna sensación de querer tener el don de la ubicuidad. Cerrar los ojos, imaginarnos lejos. Abrirlos, estar aquí. Cerrarlos ojos, imaginarnos aquí. Abrirlos, estar lejos. El sol de madrugada me alumbra; esta invitación para revivir, para vivir, para seguir vivos y celebrarlo escribiendo, me llena.
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