Circles

I once wrote that, living in a non-Greek space, the cultural easily becomes a lived experience, not defined by geography, but by time, and more often than not, by the past.

This happens, for example, when I listen to beloved Greek songs on YouTube. I feel the absence of the Greek verse, perhaps of the language itself, that elusive feeling of a self beyond the self.

My thoughts quite literally swirl in the air; memories soften into an endless sky, night and day, afternoons and mornings, from the setting sun to the rise of the morning star, from the high mountain to the boundless blue.

In some songs, the place where I came of age pulls me into deep sorrow. In others, it helps me converse with the unspeakable, seeking the eternal in steep valleys, in the blue, in damp harbors, or beneath stone bridges. When I was thirsting for love, in the kiss that was never given, in the zeibekiko that was never danced.

Memory is my homeland, not the place that condemned me to exile.

I am a refugee, always circling around myself, trying to find myself in memories and imagined images, in culture and art, which give meaning, yesterday and today.

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