Most towns are surrounded by borders.
The Canary Islands, on the other hand, are surrounded by horizons.
Perhaps for this reason, their identity is not built on dispute, but on distance. On the sea and the sky. And on the line that separates them. On that ancient custom of seeing far and not distinguishing between barrier and opportunity.
Canarians learn from a young age that living on a fragmented territory does not mean division. The islands do not touch, it is true, but they do caress each other. Each one keeps its accent, its silences, and its way of naming the land. And yet, there is something common that runs through the archipelago from northeast to southwest: a way of being in the world.
Being Canarian is living between permanence and departure. Between departure and return. Between return and waiting. Between the memory of those who had to leave and the uncertainty of those who feel that staying is beginning to become a luxury.
Canarians soon understand that remoteness is not an obstacle. Nor is proximity an occasional advantage. Accustomed to differentiating between the urgent and the important, they give both their due. Like water, wind, and shade.
Perhaps for this reason, they bleed when the islands become merchandise or scenery. When they begin to resemble too much what they never were, not only the landscape is lost, but also the meaning.
In the Canary Islands, remaining is also a way of moving forward. And preserving, of growing. That is why the horizon here has a different meaning: it represents what is yet to be achieved and what deserves to be protected.
Because horizons are not possessed. They are contemplated. And the islands are surrounded by them.
Happy Canary Islands Day.
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