#granadaspain

[cherayakat]

If it is anything, Al hamra is a dream I have lived in my own head.

[goingtoaparallelworld]

Winter in Granada

Photos by IJTR

[scandtbloveda]

Medieval beauty of Granada,Spain

[papelcouche]

Indiana Jones y la última cruzada. Sierra de Huétor.

[amirawanders]

[jesuschristgrande]

𝐘 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐨́ 𝐃𝐢𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐲𝐚; 𝐚 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐨𝐬 𝐥𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐨́; 𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐨́𝐧 𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐣𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐨́. #genesis 1:27 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . #madridspain #monumentalspain #spaintravel #spain_photographs #spain_vacations #travelspain #spain_gallery #malagaspain #granadaspain #spain_greatshots #spainstagram #bloggerspain #spain_beautiful_landscapes #visitbarcelona #barcelonainspira #barcelonatattoo #barcelona_turisme #barcelonalovers #barcelonafood #barcelonalife #barcelonaexperience #madridcity #madrid_monumental #madridlife #madridcityworld #sevillespain #visitseville #granadahills #granadaturismo (en Murcia, España) https://www.instagram.com/p/CHLWRRWDRu1/?igshid=ys5ypnaeqy8t

[alphadesigner]

The Patio de los Arrayanes. One of my favorite places in the world.

[birdsongsofpersia]

As if out of place,

[I’ve lived on this earth as if out of place,] — Maria Polydouri

Just before I hooked round to chain my bicycle to the lamp post and begin to mount the stairs to Albaicin in search of a quiet step to read and write the night away - a wild sound : drums, and not just any drums, but furious drums played in reckless abandonment. A crowd forms around him, playing on a large industrial container, and he’s in a trance. People begin to dance, shouting. Life, suddenly, happening, from the nowhere. Leaving, as the drummer collapsed onto the cobbled streets in exhaustion, someone approaches me, stocky, black eyes, and asks me if I’d like to drink wine with him. “And what is your idea of spirit?” he says to me for the upteenth time, a few hours later, at Miradora de la Luna. He’s drunk, drunker than I and the full moon have ever been. This time, I stop. I gaze out at the city. I see the buildings aching under their objects and the weight of the emotions that live inside deferred. The stars exhausted attempting to show themselves through this smog. The mountains in which I should live, but have left. The taxis screaming through crowds of frogs after the long-awaited rains, unnoticing, uncaring. The abandoned mansion in front of us, all boarded up. The homeless old woman outside the Alienista block where I teach every Thursday, and how broken she is, and it is time kneel down to her and ask what she needs. This is spirit, and how I have lived far from it, for so long. And in these months, of deep struggle, I return, slowly, slowly, almost an unmovable weight of resistance to open eyes, to remembrance of dreams. “It’s the other...the other me, the other you, the other tree, the other birds...seen only when vitally aware...” “And what’s not spirit?” I laughed, picked up the pipe that he’d given me in exchange for the three bottles of wine, that I barely touch, and point at myself. “You’re looking at him right now. And I have to do everything I can to return back.” He sighs. “Are you not just a bit of a mariposa?” he asks. I change subject, not wanting to go there. Not wanting his hands especially, or anyone’s hands upon me, for now, until I’ve returned back. “Don’t you ever worry about the future, living day to day, selling things you make, eating recycled food every night, and the time you’ll get sick?” I ask him. He begins throwing punches and jabs inches from my face. And now, they say, and now. I gaze out at my adopted city, to the mountains where I will return, that great remembering,