horses

Today is fresh and windy, and I couldn't help but think (pray) that the breeze would carry my smile across the world, to you. I hope you're riding horses. I hope you're living your dream and loving your dream. Well, you've always loved your dreams. I can see you now, eyes sparkling and peering over moonlit Spanish rooftops. With that warm, lopsided grin. No, maybe that complacent frown. Either way, you are there! You're there. I wish the breeze could carry my love to you.

I hope you're riding horses. I hope you've felt the dirt on your feet, I hope you've bronzed your forehead and callused your fingertips, I hope you're happy. Ganas. That is what you've always had in most of you. So much, that you laughed at the thought of riding horses. (That's not what Spain's for.)

I will always believe that horses are Spain—but there you go again, with your functions and logic. Still. However you find happiness, whether it be in counting bricks and crumbled stucco or touching the thigh of some exotic Spanish coquette, I hope you find it.

I hope you're enchanted by the music and bustle, the conversations and food. I hope you will let yourself be enchanted. Somewhere across the world, you are sleeping soundly in a foreign home, or walking on stony sidewalks, or sitting next to a window, measuring the distances between stars and dreaming about her.

Today is fresh and windy, and I hope you're riding horses.