As I write this, my hand is covered in red; like the blood I was trying to imitate. Colombia was born out of the clouds, this morning the fog entered the room and although I knew I wasn’t in a dream, I felt as though I was in one.
this dream brought the end of the thryptic poetically.
blood in the mountains, nos matamos entre familia. Like a serpent moving, demanding to shed it’s skin rubbing against rough tree trunks, the blood has marked the way of it’s people and although the spirit of Colombia is colorful, full of magic, kindness, and happiness, our history has been written in the mud covered bodies of children of war, the books that hide our roots and the lies politicians romanize between the 8 pm news and novellas.
