Pláka, Mílos, Greece
Blue and white — the two colours that represent Greece will always represent for me the sand and the sea, the sky and its clouds, and the purity and serenity of being at peace somewhere, somehow.
A shimmering veil of sea foam appears as the waves caress the shore; as I sit watching the ocean as it rushes toward the coastline as it has for thousands of years because it has never been able to resist the temptation of stealing weathered rocks from the seaside, taking them far out into open water, and replacing them with glistening grains of sand - like pearls - as gifts.
I try so hard to remember the days I never want to forget.
Maybe I’m addicted to daydreams — I'm sure my form teacher can vouch for that since she had it specially written in my yearly report card when I was in Primary 3.
I’ve been clutching a book called "Sputnik Sweetheart" by Haruki Murakami these past few days, steadily devouring its contents.
It talks about a girl named Sumire who disappears on an anonymous Greek Island for days and weeks. Wherever she wasn’t - or isn’t, anymore, who knows - there lingered a faint trace of her shadow, dancing and laughing in the moonlight.
Every line I read brings me back to the ordered rows of Greek tavernas in Mílos lining the harbour on my left, and the smattering of houses and hotels dotting the hills on my right as I'd casually make my way down to the main square every morning to get groceries, stock up on huge litre bottles of fresh water, stop by the bakery for some spanakopita and then hop on the next bus out to the island's most pristine beaches to spend the rest of the day soaking in the sun, sand and the dazzling Aegean sea.
If I close my eyes and surrender the present world to my memory, I see everything just as clearly as I've lived it before. Every touch, every sight, every sound, every taste and smell comes alive like I've never left — A fantasy indistinguishable from reality.