I woke up in Disneyland today. Not the theme park but the place where Walt surely found his muse. Trust me, it’s even more magical here; it’s real.
I woke up in Switzerland today to the sight of cold and vibrant green hills blanketing the mountains outside my window. Sprinkled with small faerie-tale cottages, the hills slither their way to the top of every peak around me, weaving around patches of decaying trees and freshly powdered snow. From my room, I can still see my shoe indents from this morning’s walk, It’s like footprints on the moon. It’s rush hour now, but all I can hear is the sound of snow melting and the pollution of my own breath as it adjusts to the altitude.
I think my new favorite color is fall in the alps.
It’s pure sensation. I have found myself suffocated in cities, simultaneously surrounded by everyone and no one. Perhaps that’s why this space is so unique. In the mountains we’re supposed to be alone. It’s strange, this type of solitude, the way it melts away loneliness.
To those who may not ever have the chance to see it for yourself:
Know that I am nothing but a scribe. This is the grotesque politics of pine places; of profound spaces; famous writers who visited these places are given too much credit; how could anyone be anything but brilliant here? A writer is not a writer without a muse.
P.S. one day I will post an update about the Venice trip I swear