I was back in Paris and it was still dark. The airport was still sleeping, and so was I.
The city was still sleeping. Not a noise, not a car, a few people walking silently on the sidewalks and in the underground corridors of the metro. Too early in a Sunday morning.
Two backpacks hanging on my shoulders, one covering my back, the other lying on my chest and belly.
This was the exact moment in between two travels, the one just ended, but of which I still feel the weight on my shoulders, and the one starting, pulling me ahead towards experiences I am still unaware of. In the middle, a sleeping Fabio, dazed and confused, happy and sad, full and empty, transparent and opaque, as always and everywhere in my words, in my swirling around two opposite poles, north and south, in the daily twisting also known as life, the perpetual action of leaving and being left.
The city was still sleeping. Not a noise, not a car, a few people walking silently on the sidewalks and in the underground corridors of the metro. Too early in a Sunday morning.
Two backpacks hanging on my shoulders, one covering my back, the other lying on my chest and belly.
This was the exact moment in between two travels, the one just ended, but of which I still feel the weight on my shoulders, and the one starting, pulling me ahead towards experiences I am still unaware of. In the middle, a sleeping Fabio, dazed and confused, happy and sad, full and empty, transparent and opaque, as always and everywhere in my words, in my swirling around two opposite poles, north and south, in the daily twisting also known as life, the perpetual action of leaving and being left.
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