Morocco, silence in the desert

Morocco Travel Blog

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When came the evening, I wandered around the streets. At some point, a power failure plunged the theatre of the streets of the Moroccan bazaar in obscurity. I had an impression of freedom, I could move without being seen. I distinguished forms, these human forms have to see in me only another form human. I was no longer a foreigner, I could go on without end, be on the other side of the world as if I lived there in one of these small houses.  


Now the desert is behind the window.

All around stretches a broad dark brown plain, in the sparkling light, under the mountains with gloomy violet reflections, which are like an impression which comes and then immediately escapes the glance. The scenery is now on the screen of my digital camera, but the violet reflections are not. They will just stay in my mind. When the wind is blowing from the north where the Atlas mountains are, the sky takes a blue colour that it should always keep.


If leaving is to discover, opening an unknown sky, widening without end the space of life, then the desert is the supreme field, that of immobility and perpetual change. The desert leaves a pain in the stomach that no patented medicine can cure. But the quiet wind of the desert always offers the same healing. The desert is the line, wind, silence, the pure form, rough form coming out of the spirit.

An angular rock behind which the sun disappears. The apparent immobility of the desert projects itself in space, from the smallest stone to the sky, it give itself entirely above the head and under the feet. Space proceeds in front of oneself. Wind comes to meet me. 


Life will be purified as this road, a straight and dark band, which disappears far in the bright whiteness, under the midday sun, with its shape which whirls in the heat, to become a white mass. Or like the road which descends of the mountain towards the rock valley, to the shades in the light of the finishing afternoon, towards the green oasis, the water, the walls of clay brown of the houses. Men would live in silence, and would then only be able to listen to the world which opens around them. Men's sufferings and their limits would be listened to attentively. Men would be wise as the men of the desert. The beauty of the world is in front of their house, as simple as a dune, a mountain above an oasis without name. The sky and the ground have all the possible colours. Rocks speak to them as the infinite glance on the world of men's passage. The moon and the stars stand above the silence of the rocks, as if the sky and earth had met for the first time. Wise men would be those who would always be able to discover the value of the world, of a tree, of a drop of water, of silence, of a word. 

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