Longing trying to weave together a tangle of absence and memories. Nostalgia for the journey, for a moment, for a sensation already past, impossible to relive but possible to evoke, over and over again, with the strokes gifted by a photograph and a surprisingly faithful memory.
Mandalay, Myanmar. Nothing special to do. A street splashed with red, puddles, mud, and a fleeting gaze that, suddenly, stops being so. A silent smile on the other side of the camera. A grandfather in a skirt, his pupils distilling pride. He does not want to interrupt, he doesn’t want the magic to break.
Longing for that magic. A yearning to return as the Greek root suggests, suffering from the inability to do so. Suffering is useless; better to transform it into an impulse to seek out other destinations now where more smiles can be pursued. And so the melancholy that hurts serves as food for new hopes.
Alone and yet surrounded by people, by trays of eggs, by motorcycles, by timid drops of rain, and by quarrelsome dogs. Waving goodbye while the magic disappears around a corner and gives you a simple happiness capable of muzzling old anxieties.
Nostalgia.
