imagination

An evening hike, a late beer on the edge of the slope. While the massif directly in front of me glows in the evening red, I fall into my dreams. Perhaps ancient giants ruled over the massif in the past, and this peak would be their testimony? I dream of Gaia, the mother of all things, the world that gave birth to the endless blue sky, the mountains and the sea. I dream of Prometheus, who was taken to the worst wasteland of the Caucasus and chained with unbreakable chains to a mighty rock high above a terrible abyss. He had to suffer there without food or drink and without sleep, and every day an eagle came to feed on his liver, which was constantly renewed because he was immortal. The imagination must remain free, completely free? Like the giant you see in the mountains.