Patagonia, February 2020
I remember the dust of running horses and clouds of smoke carried by the whistling wind. I remember the hawk looking down on my wrinkles. And motionless insects on the white rocks. I remember the grey mountains glimpsed in the sultry mist. Cold, endless nights in the Pampas, among brambles and rivers.
I remember the hard faces, and the shouting voices of a language now lost. I remember inappropriate explorers in search of worlds incomprehensible to them. Heavy footsteps tread thorny bushes. Crumbling stones like time passing by.
And in the time that is lost here, I lose my memories. And this sky. And these stars.
Now, I see migrants from all latitudes crossing new borders. I see asphalt strips scratching my land. Massive trucks litter the horizon. I see cars, motorbikes and bicycles. Tourists captivated by my silence challenge their small solitudes. Crossing me is their goal. The enchantment of travel drives them southward in search of a still primitive calm.
Further down, where adventure is still possible, there where the world ends.
Satisfied with their wandering they can do nothing but rise again, beating my weary land.
And walking under the sun that sets in the west and sinks into the Pacific(quote), they care not for my melancholy. Distracted, they turn their backs on my past and what remains is the bitter freedom of infinite spaces.
I am Patagonia.
Difficult lover, essence of dream. Elemental form of life, motionless spectator.
I… am Dust and Wind.
