I often wonder: do cities feel human?
You miss them?
You miss them?
Do cities have hearts that yearn, yearn, grieve, rejoice?
Or is it our hearts that break with longing and indulge in longing to the point of pain?
Do cities carry the weight of their history, memory and the stories of those who settled them?
Or does she not care about all that?
I stand in front of the Damascene Jasmine painting and I am overwhelmed with nostalgia for this city, it snatches me against my will, robs me of my heart, I miss it and do not see it, I leave it and it does not leave me.
Someone pulls me out of my nostalgia and violates my silence, asking me in a voice with a loving lisp:
-Did you paint this painting?
