a note from golan heights

I am sitting alone on a balcony of rented house, somewhere close to places where we used to camp.
At long last I am reading Russian and it makes me want to write words.
I drink wine made by monks who swore silence so that it will open my mouth, but there is nobody to talk to for at least few more hours until kibbutzniks will raise the sun. Meaning of auto-dialog is equal to auto-erotic – same post-coital sadness but there is nobody to share it with.
I want to go home, to routine that does not contain feelings of guilt for aging parents, no emotional devaluation of memories, envy and sorry for second homeland.
Everything here is more intense, sugar sweeter, people ruder, girls bustier. Nymphets are running around in style of “old teenagers”, kids grow up faster here. Mine have not heard sirens yet – big reason why we live so far away.

I am afraid to dig deep. What if I find something I can not contain? I’d rather be shallow but happy. I’d rather remove a page from diary than risk exposure. But you know all of that, and you already made peace with it.


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