Frida from a Different Land

The clouds teased the mountains, one by one. Covering delicately at one point and leaving them stark naked at the other.

A girl sat on the edge of the mountain and talked to them in foreign language. The fading sun made a melange of colors in the sky and on her pale skin.

She wasn’t from here. Her blonde hair swirled in sync with the breeze pattern. They revealed her rather pink earlobes and covered them swiftly before the world could have a look. She kept talking to the mountains like long-lost friends do at a reunion.

I watched her laughing, crying and whispering secrets into the dewy mountain air. I bet half of the people would have thought she was crazy. I didn’t. I felt she was just content.

The sun had gone down rather hastily than I imagined. I took a look at my watch and started packing my bags. The moment I decided to walk downhill with her, she was gone.

I started my journey back, thinking about her. Contemplating what made her share a laugh and shed a tear with the mountains. I will never know whether she was actually content. Heck, I don’t even know her name. For me, she was a lost Frieda, from a foreign land

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