yet another sleepless nightthe noises from the living-room have finally quietened downeventually there is silencesleep, though, has not come back to visit me
i concentrate and listen to the whispers of the night
a crow croaks three times, in long intervals, almost in response to the tumultuous questions that accumulate in my headand then the howl of stray dogs, four or maybe six of thema car parks and its reverse plays “For Elisa”a man spits, i imgine him being thin, wearing a withe shirt and a checkered lungi
a solitary bird sings a rapacious call from the tree with read flowers
After the quarantine of my escaped malaria, I set off to travel once again and I began a strange and surprising sailing.
A trip through unexpected islands, an exploration of my present that, in its making, takes the shape of an archipelago of multiple islands, where people speak distinct languages, where they share a different sense of community, where they interpret codes formulated in often mutually unintelligible fashions.
And I sail, floating between one shore and the other.
Defeated the pirates of the past, and yet cautious so as they won’t come back in the form of a ghost, I venture to the exploration of new tribes where we playfully wonder about potential compatibles rather than lamenting the fears of attachments.
And I discover new combinations of flavours, new scents, new sources of laughter.
There is always the risk of shallow waters, but this – we know – it is a risk that is intrinsic to every trip.
The heart beats fast at the thought of a new adventure. It savours the acrobatic landings of seagulls and kingfishers. It seeks the thrill in the vertigo of the unknown.
And the sailing continues, floating between one shore and the other, without the ambition of any destination.