Swimming inside the fuzzy memories of my childhood, I pick up self reflections from old times. They are materializing into the outline of a shy kid, fascinated by the nebulous, mysterious worlds hidden in the Earth’s thin, rocky crust.
Back then, I would often spend long hours searching for caves below the ridges covered with green-blue shadows of pine and spruce forests that surrounded my village in a giant, still embrace. Year after year I would come back to find little caverns, some only a few steps deep, others extending for tens of meters. Most of these underground rooms were dug in lime by temporary water streams coming from rains or hatched by the periodic melting of the snow in the spring. The never-resting water was the invisible architect for them all.
Buried in the steep shadows of the slopes where the whispering sound of the forests was the norm, the caves seemed to be waiting for me. While seeking them, I would often have to climb dangerous, almost vertical rocks covered in moss and hidden by pines with roots digging deep in the gray stone. Then, suddenly, a new opening to a small dark underworld would unravel in front of my eyes. In most instances I could only get inside by crouching and crawling, as their ceiling was too low to walk upright.
(Marian C. Ghilea - "Butterfly's Dream")
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