They were incredibly sad days and incredibly cold days on incredibly short days – powered by 4pm sunsets, like a speedily ripening banana, my insides became softer by the day. Softening into feelings that long for a hug from friends or for my mother’s warm hand, gently cradling mine, as we walk into the morning sunlight. It felt like a good decision to go out on my own into a strange country and pursue adventure. A year away from home didn’t seem too hard to pull off. In fact, months went by quickly through weekly discoveries with new friends and religious cycles to the forest. Of course, like many others, the tables turned for me when isolation days started and my frosty fingers seemed to gather more frost from the icy winter.
I revisit words I had written in a time of worldly chaos, confusion and a sensationalised introduction into the unknown. It’s funny to think how comfortably I welcome the unknown nowadays… Observing how many people have done rather well by being toppled upside down and inside out by the universal washing machine’s “Big Spin”. Much like all spins, cycling through birth, life and rebirth through every aspect of your unique character. (Mine being every element that makes me a Cri*). Allowing each element to pursue its cycle in its natural rhythm allowed me to create a cosy little space, housed by organs, blood, a keen and wandering mind and limbs that carry me effortlessly into my days – a home, well, within myself.
Suddenly, homesickness could not live within a home. That same home that regained strength and jumped on a bicycle, visiting the city, after a first wave by our friend (need I name the chap?). One does realise that after you’ve waved to one another, once, and then again – following a second wave, you become rather acquainted and somehow the fear of the unknown dissipates. This cycle to the city with my music on shuffle, brought Nina Simone’s “Who knows where the time goes” back into my peripheral vision. Each word she spoke and every ounce of the melody threw me into a twinkling state of nostalgia. Through some rough footage and editing, I created a visual diary of the first days when hitting the streets, jumping on a train and seeing friends were made to be okay again.
* “Cri” is Cristina’s nickname.