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I walk, I rewalk, Surveying this territory, that I had never explored before, I expected to live in a secondary state, at best a melancholic one. Nonetheless, my memory rapidly rectifies me, making me reminding of a number of things I thought were forever buried in the recesses of my self.
And it is just, but simply, by moving in it, as a kid learning how to walk and finding an undescribable pleasure in speeding up, one foot after the other, just because of the pleasure of feeling finally alive, free from any tutelage, from any right of its own gaze. Free to commit those childish follies that age prohibits and that by simply being in open air suddenly brings us to repeat.
Though, this space, with its infinite stretch never left me and I could never get rid of it. But where does this feeling of exile and abandonment, secretly nourishing me as a remorse, come from? Is this sentiment that, in spite of myself, pushes me to mentally represent this space to put myself in intimate relationship to it by furnishing it not so much wuth artefacts, but with stunt ideas, dreams and reminescences?
As every time, in the presence of the desert, a crazy envy intimates me to unveil and discover myself to my own eyes.
The caravane also brings me to all possible states of mind: it makes the genes of nomadism born again in me, it directs me to pastoral paths that my ancestors certainly walked, except that instead of rare commodities, my caravan discharges ideas, emotions and sentiments all over the place. Through it I rediscover the primary vocation of man: being in eternal movement and stopping only to share fears and hopes at dint of questions.
And it is just, but simply, by moving in it, as a kid learning how to walk and finding an undescribable pleasure in speeding up, one foot after the other, just because of the pleasure of feeling finally alive, free from any tutelage, from any right of its own gaze. Free to commit those childish follies that age prohibits and that by simply being in open air suddenly brings us to repeat.
Though, this space, with its infinite stretch never left me and I could never get rid of it. But where does this feeling of exile and abandonment, secretly nourishing me as a remorse, come from? Is this sentiment that, in spite of myself, pushes me to mentally represent this space to put myself in intimate relationship to it by furnishing it not so much wuth artefacts, but with stunt ideas, dreams and reminescences?
As every time, in the presence of the desert, a crazy envy intimates me to unveil and discover myself to my own eyes.
The caravane also brings me to all possible states of mind: it makes the genes of nomadism born again in me, it directs me to pastoral paths that my ancestors certainly walked, except that instead of rare commodities, my caravan discharges ideas, emotions and sentiments all over the place. Through it I rediscover the primary vocation of man: being in eternal movement and stopping only to share fears and hopes at dint of questions.
