Landing. Heathrow airport. 33 years old and one day. Back to childhood, where memories were still liquid like a sea of stars and shells, like what Joseph Cornell’s dreamy fantasies were made of.
I celebrated with those people who made our first memories with. My parents, my grandmother, my very first friends. And it was like yesterday, as if we were back in 1986. We laughed, we told stories, we dreamt of the future. The future, so different in so many ways for each one of us, yet so commonly anticipated. Half of my friends are having babies and the other half are getting divorced. And I? I am looking, looking for the “artist of my life” as Patti Smith was calling Robert Mapplethorpe, the love of her life, yet not her husband. All of us however, in a universally synchronised coincidence are changing our mind sets, we are changing our life.
A new friend of mine moved to London to be able to see his little son every day, some others are moving to Greek islands to see something new, away from past. Everything changes, nothing is absolute anymore, like when we were children, everything flies and goes, and what is left, is just clouds of what once used to be our small self, long mornings beneath the covers kissing and touching our mortal bodies, late night confessions and picnics on wet green grass. The clouds are only stories drifting in the sky.