Mediterranean

by Christos Polydorou

Over twenty years ago an adolescent, effervescent, fluorescent, emotionally prepubescent, I decided to go to where I had to go by the way of tragedy. I had taken too literally the work of Sophocles and my father handled things by being a drama queen himself, oh dad, what a child you had remained, when you lost your first child. Over twenty years ago I walked into the Mediterranean sea shouting that this was the way I was going to, finally, leave Cyprus, the copper, the goats on the mountains, the fields of walnut trees, for a vision I had read in a book in a British Literature class, or I had seen in a film which was most probably an adaptation of a book. The major city as a sprawling symbol of my impending spirituality. Then why is it now I seek the clearings within, where the grass grows wild, and the baby plums hang abundantly from the branches?

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