All quiet.

Sun on my face, my body horizontal, flat against the ever-moist earth. Stillness. I can smell the dirt, the sweet, thin blades of grass only inches from my face. Heavy streaks of light drape my body, only blocked by branches of lemon trees, avocados, mulberries above me. In the distance, maybe 300 feet away, I can hear rhythmic waves breaking at the feet of English tourists who come invade this haven for a week or two. I can smell the sea's salty air gently competing with the smell of earth. I meditate on the subtlety of temperatures that dance across my skin. Warm sun, cool breeze, warm grass, cool earth. I am suspended in its polarity.

My boyfriend shuffles ten feet from where I'm laying. He is making tea and looking for his journal. We are the only people within 100 feet in every direction. My eyes have been closed, but I can still feel our cabin, our bungalow behind me. Again the temperatures subtly dance; warm window sill, cool terracotta tiles, warm dishtowel sitting on the counter, cool plaster walls (every building is made of this white plaster). In my mind's eye, I imagine the blue amber flame on the stove as I hear the kettle begin a slight scream. The scream signifies its completion while our day has just begun.

The air here is both dense and weightless. Every stimulus is distinct. Every color is vibrant. The green growth, lush and alive. The fruit above my head, fleshy and bleeding. Blue patches of sky through the branches, tranquil and infinite as i fall into it. They shift from indigo to teal. Swollen lemons bursting yellow with the sun kisses. Even in my mind, the white, plaster walls of the bungalow are blinding, blinding and cool under this mediterranean, late-morning sun.

(the image below is the actual place this was written about)