Where have I been, again?

On the other side of the daily routine there’s a focal plane of continuous flow barely dictated by absent-minded circadian rhythms. Evenings mix their inks with young nights, sweaty sleeps carry you through daybreaks, and moody mornings either find you still drowsy and forgetful, or they are indeed still full of sleep and unready to start the day a step ahead of you.

Nightmares and bursts of preoccupation routinely cut your breath, just when you think you’re good to go, run, tackle situations and ride changes. You walk away shivering, like after a car accident you just miraculously avoided; you pull over and get off your vehicle and start walking aimlessly and in a bewildered stupor, until there’s a darkened room around you and you can lie down in a bed, wishing it’ll all fade away, inhaled by the low-murmuring night.

Everything proceeds remarkably, but there’s concern about widening areas of unremarkableness: the piles of notes accumulated in the recent past and regarding writing projects are a muddy rainstorm in a cemetery of scenes and unfinished sketches now overgrown and turned into an organic, jungle-like labyrinth. The sentences are there, annotations and comments, but the handwriting sort of wallows behind a haze of anonymity. They have a shade of unrecognisability. Inspired creations by some lost doppelgänger? Because there’s also a trace, a watermark, making them so familiar at the same time. In the honey-slow flow, one can’t really tell. Yet the beat is there, somewhere. Yet it makes you snap your fingers and say, that’s me.

There’s a big warehouse to get rid of. Crates of useless used skins, of cumbersome stuff keeping the hot-air balloon very well grounded. And the red is getting old and more orangey. This place is not marked on any known map. Although some photos may give you a feeling of déjà vu. One can easily be fooled and say, I’ve been there & done that. Er, no, sorry. This is completely new, it keeps getting newer, it may seriously fuck you up if you don’t pay attention. You frame this with your camera, you record that with your notes in your trendy ridiculously expensive old-fashioned-looking notebook, but it ultimately slips away. It slips away no matter how dry your hands are. The funny thing is, it can be beautiful too.

I’ve been there, to get a better understanding of that.

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About Riccardo Mori

Writer. Translator. Mac consultant. Enthusiast photographer. • If you like what I write, please consider supporting my writing by purchasing my short stories, Minigrooves or by making a donation. Thank you!