Giorgio de Chirico, Mystery and Melancholy of a StreetThe date conjures up bitter-sweet memories. Thirty years ago precisely, the move to a new house, from an impoverished working-class suburb to a delusional middle-class one of parvenus forever carrying the poverty within.
The derelict railway station left behind, the forsaken best friend smiling and waving goodbye to the end of childhood.
The new family dog, born on that very day, and who'd stay with us for thirteen years. My constant, inseparable companion, and ever so often the only reliable friend.
The promise of a fresh start amidst the changes, soon followed by the realisation that the chilliness and immobility of the house, and of everything else, would never disappear. I'd never find a home there, a realisation that would condemn me to an adolescence of daydreaming and vicarious travelling, at once a blessing and a curse.
And later on the wanderlust, triggered by the rebelliousness and restlessness within. Changing beds umpteen times, incessantly butting heads against unassailable walls - against heartless, intractable people.
Forever searching for that which does not exist, despite the infernal inscription.
Painfully taking shape ever since, stumbling in the dark, groping in the half-light, growing, changing - and slowly learning to carry my clarity with me.
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1 comment:
Gostei!
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