The Magic of Gris-Gris.
They call you wild – and when I first laid my eyes upon you, I was awestruck. Your energy was something else altogether. I imagined falling free off the edge of your cliff and into the thrashing water below; imagining how I would become entangled in your waves; imagining what you would do to my body; imagining myself becoming one with you – and with everything. Magic.
Your blues were deep, dark, swirling, mysterious – contrasting splendidly against the emerald green of your trees, whose whispers reached me on the wings of the wind, telling me that there is magic around here. The sand was somehow smooth, soft, elegant even – the perfect contradiction to the waters churning powerfully just mere metres away. Magic.
I looked around. Speechless. From the skies, to the ocean, to the trees, to the sand – even to the breeze. Just, magic.
They call you wild – the wild, wild south. And you showed me there and then, in the moment I first laid my eyes upon you, that it is the wildest and the freest of things that are somehow the most beautiful. Complete magic.
