I am a mountain baby. I grew up in a community on top of a hill. A cliff on top of a mountain is my sacred place. An borderless space to breathe, to contemplate and to rejuvenate. Some of my fondest adolescent memories are those solitary moments I sat on the edge of a mountain looking down at a small village below. At one particular cottage with a garden of yellow roses, in between mango trees. I remember the air up there was always crispy with a bit of chill. And that the village and the surrounding forest was sometimes blanketed with fog.
Now that for many years I became a city dweller I have never been at ease in the plains. If not towards the sea I keep running to the hills.