Moroccan musings 2

Staring into gold, a door as though I drank the vial in wonderland, when all around me there were none. Intricate royals, sophisticated spheres, impressive teals crafted with careful hands to lure us here, when for hours, staring through a dirty window, I had seen none. Villages surely abandoned in my mind until I saw that boy shuffling dust on the bicycle. The man on the rock, staring back just as curiously, as a world that would never truly know his kept rolling, leaving behind bare. Colorless.

And now, I’m looking at this. A closed door I had to wait in line for. Sightseers suffocating so that I longed to be back by the dirty window. For this wasn’t really what it was. And yet, all I could think about was a photo. Me to be in this. People to know I was here. I knew it was wrong, but I felt justified because I wasn’t alone, look how long this line was getting. And now, no one was even looking at the door anymore, just the picture of them looking at the door. To see if it was good enough, but for what? Those eyes that would never see it.

Fez, Morocco