Written by Branka Kurtz

I was born here, and this is where I’ll disappear. Here I saw the endless sky and sea on which my eyes are resting and I wouldn’t replace this for any other place in the world. There might be even better places, but dearest to my heart only this one is. This place, that is me, that is my life and my love, that is my cradle and my grave, my beginning and my ending. I know every saddle, each deflection, any elevation on this sight; I know every scent that is told from spring to winter storms. I know every nuance of the light, from rose colored mornings until the red sunsets, from cotton bubble cloud lets to big, dark clouds that announcing the storm.

And it’s all mine, like my own body, and even bigger, and more important, because that is something eternal, that accepted me forever, tied, marked, itself with me, and me with itself. That is why I can’t say: I love my home. The same as I can’t say: I love my body. It is much more accurate if I say: I live with it, without it there’s no my life.
Take out a man from the mountains to the sea, and you have opened an intoxicating holiday with a happy dawn and the uncertain dusk. The desire for the sea seems to be collected and grown through the generations, and its realization in our personality is severe like an explosion. Exodus of an tribe to the sea, that is the beginning of its real history, its entry into the realm of eternal looks and better features. The decisive moment in the history of species is repeated each time in the history of the individual at the first contact with the sea, just in a different shape and smaller scale.

Scenes of the stone walls of ancient cities winning Mediterranean plants, eternal music of noise waves, grinding of gravel, jingling of mysterious tidal debris, a smell of the sea air – this all is a background on which, distracted by unrests, conscience of origin and the longing for a better world they want to win the logic of history and culture, the laws of physics and geography, in a tragic inability to overcome the limits of their own nationalism, intellect and personality in a desired areas.

I breathe
Like every other sea creature,
On the gills.
Because in me is the sea of my seas.

And with my lung I breathe only when,
There’s no any other way –
When I have to.

I know some who always ship with their fantasies over the sea. Crucify sails in their eyes, kiss theirs accident, wave to misunderstood loves and go into the spark. Those who stay on the coast are wondering and waving back to the traveler, they admire his courage and and cry at the parting. They shouting after him for long, to come back, that the sea is dangerous and that it won’t the riders by its indefinitely. But the sailor, who has caught with the joyful giddiness and getting drunk by sea winds and currents, doesn’t hear or see the shore. His eye catches the seagulls and the endless blue and already writes the first letter of love.

The days are passing, storms are bigger, all the wounds that shore gave to the sailor as a memory are breathing, and the sun is burning. Tests the sea and embrace the infinity of the sky, and there, somewhere – and nowhere: a man corks. Left by itself in an eternal conflict. Big in a relation to the people, and so tiny in a relation to the sea, just like a drop that is sent by the sea to tingle and aching. And there in the blue of the world, where occurs the word sea and sailor, in love, embrace, promote the life. Many of the sailors never come back to the shore, they stay given to the eternity and fairy tales.
While I sleep, sometimes I dream that I sail the sea, alone and happy…