I love this cemetery, but don’t bury me here. Take me somewhere far away, where the trees are evergreen and the sky a deep azure blue.
As I read a book* in the cemetery today I’d thought I’d take a few photographs of the place. The trees, for me, make this a place of refuge, hemmed in from the hustle and bustle of the nearby streets. It is not the hustle and bustle of people, but of cars, of individual machines that speed along the tarmacked roads and have no tale to tell save the speed and fury of the human race. This place, on the other hand, hums with life, with the numerous species of birds calling to each other with stories of love, with the rabbits eating freely on the grass, with the insects teeming over every stone, with the dogs and cats amiably walking around, and the people, the people walking slowly, deep in thought. I love this place, I have read innumerable books here, wrote letters to friends here, took girlfriends for walks here, learnt to ride my bike here, and yes, I visit old friends, people I have known who have died, here.
In all seasons, in the full cycle of the blinding heat of the full on rays of the sun to the showers of the ice and snow, I have visited and loved this place. I am lucky to live here in this area, that much I know, where the shades of humanity’s gray dour buildings are offset by the colours of nature herself. This is a place that I love.
* The excellent ‘One Hundred Days of Solitude’ by Gabriel García Márquez. I adored his novel ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ and his short stories, and when I saw ‘One Hundred…’ in a bookstore (we still have those, just) recently I couldn’t resist buying the book, that I felt to be lost in Márquez’s world of magic realism once again would be a deep and fulfilling pleasure, and one that I could not pass up.