The spinning kaleidoscope

The city never looked the same way, not even through the same eyes. Each time seemed like the city was being raised from the ashes like a phoenix. And as kaleidoscopes kept turning round and round, colors changed and mixed themselves together in combinations that would never be repeated, ever.

And every day was different, every morning was one of a kind, and the light from every dying star was unique.

And as the breeze whispered their names each and every night, they felt comfort. As if they were safe. As if they were in some place they already knew from before. Maybe from a dream. Maybe from a past life. Or maybe ‘cos right there, in that place and time, was where they were supposed to be.


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Then the city turned into a forest. It turned into a lake and mountains. Into the sea. Into the dessert. And the kaleidoscope kept turning round, while skies changed their reflection in the water, again and again. And there, right there, was that feeling of comfort all over again. Maybe, after all, that feeling didn’t come from a specific place or time, but from the continuous spin of the kaleidoscope. From the continuous tides. From the ceaseless sunrises and sunsets. From the endless spin of the world.

“And in the treacherous world […] everything is in the eye, the eye of the beholder.” Ramón de Campoamor