Sandcastle, EnglandSand castle, Goa.I prefer the later destination.Do I sound unconvincing? Let me introduce you with my girlfriend.Her name is Goa. She is pretty young. She is awash with beauty. The young and old alike throng to see her. And invariably they all fall in love with her. Again and again. Time and again.
Her body is glistening golden. If you try to hold her she simply slides down back into herself, the alluring goldenness leading to silvery strands of her glistening eyes. The effervescent eyes that are full of water. You enter the water and hear her heart, crashing and dashing like waves around you, your own heart aflutter. You see her green dress swaying to the salty breeze, the palms skirting the beach and rocking to a cosmic rhythm.She looks at you. Seductress. She knows what her charms can do to you. So she makes you pious.
You visit one holy temple after another yearning for her. Find her in the mossy churches that once competed with Lisbon for grandeur. You try to seek her elusive self and make her cry with your vile drunkenness. She is pure. Yet. A virgin. Ripe yet unplucked.
She seduces you with her charm and yet stays deeply rooted to her ancestory.She serves you with her own hands. Her food is always doled out fresh, and she wears fragrant ribbons of charm making you yearn for the scent of salty breezes, moonlit dances, and cozy hammocks and even introduces her to her beautiful folks at home.
What grand people they are! The whole family seems to radiate exuberance and charm. You walk hand in hand. You are raved by the lilting tunes that emanate from a lonely guitar, your romance ends in a waltz. So that’s my girl. And now I know that you are in love with her too, since you read up to this last full-stop.P.S.: Visit her. I don’t mind.