The longest journey begins with an open Heart



I liked Pokljuka back then. It was always summer. Sometimes rain. And that rain was feeding the green and silver forests to mush their sensual rooms and spaciousness with the fibriotic scents. So estrogens were kicking in back then and the horses. Horses were left to freely roam in packs, mulching on grass and serenely co-create the very character of that environment. It's wild was the nature. It's air and breeze. The breath and lungs full of life in expectation. If that was only me. But the ramp was open. Red and white. Before the entry to the spacious Pokljuka area there was an army garnizon. I have never seen no one exiting or entering, but there it was. All in black. And the forest, all silver and green. And the horses, white, brown and black.

And the horseflies. I did not know how they can bite until I did not sit on one of their strongest victims, bare-saddled it, and waited. And waited. And horse did not move. The horse just kept on mulching the grass below. And no matter how I attempted to make it move it just flapped his long golden tail around to make the flies go away. And I was waiting almost in oblivion for it to move. And it did not. And I was afraid to climb off it then. As I was small. Very small. If that was only me. Until that very particular moment. When I saw the horsefly on my leg and didn't want to move it as it was big. A big black iron type horsefly. And in the next moment I held in my scream out of pain. It was horrible pain. It stung straight into my leg and down to my bone. With it's sharp sting. Sucking for blood. For the horse blood. And out of the protective reflex I kicked. And the horse moved. And the horse took off and ran off with me on its back across the field into the forest. And I was screaming. I was screaming of the pain and out of the excitement. It was crazy. And all horses followed. If that was only me. If that was only the horse. And if there's still the memorial to that armed conflicts. Is there a memorial still?

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