Lately, Morocco has been on my mind.
I can’t quite explain how special that trip was — just me, my family, and moments I didn’t realise I missed so much.

Maybe it’s because we haven’t spent proper time together for so long.
Maybe it’s because we joined a tour, so we didn’t need to worry about planning and just focused on enjoying.
Or maybe... we were simply present with each other. No pressure. Just love.

Tagine and couscous quickly became my sister’s and my favourites.
Mum loved harira – though even I said, “not for two weeks straight!” But if it's with family, somehow it's still okay.

We explored so much, even though we were tired and had to keep up with work at night.
My sister, as always, inspired me to keep discovering new places.
Mum reminded me to slow down and be more thoughtful of others.
But this time, something felt different — I didn’t feel the need to make everyone happy.
I just believed that everyone was happy already.
And it felt like they were happy with me, not because of me.

One of my favourite memories was walking around the red hills.
They reminded me of my hometown — calm, natural, earthy.
Maybe that’s why I loved them.
Or maybe I’ve learned to love things just because I choose to.
The red hills don’t care what I think, but I care, and that’s enough.

Morocco felt like walking through a painting — each city, each village so unique.
The vibe changes so much from one place to another. It surprised me.
The people were kind, warm, and proud of who they are.
I found something familiar in them — family-oriented, like us.
They value their art, their history, their food — and I love that.

I do want to visit again.
Actually, I’ve always had this quiet dream:
To revisit every place I’ve been when I’m older.
To walk those same paths with older eyes, and maybe realise —
that not much has changed,
just the way I see things.

24 April 2025,

C

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