For Christmas i was given Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time” vol.1 and I stored it in my hand luggage for my 2 week trip back to Portugal. It was a trip planned to work on a book as well as to recover from the many stresses I had been through in the last few years. During the trip i always carried the book with me but I never read it. Instead, the idea given by its title influenced my thoughts as I briefly returned to the country of my birth.
The few pieces that still stand are a few members of my extended family, my mother’s house and one of my closest friend, Tó, whom i always visit and whose changes I notice each time we meet.
Only the trees remain the same, always, and when i think of which part of me still belongs there, I think about the trees which like me hold on to that ground with their roots.
I hold on to unimportant moments; I see those as the most relevant to retain a memory, a sense of routine in a place as an antidote to building the myth. During the journey back home where I now live, the landscape is always emptier, less magical. I spend most of it sleeping, with a sense of defeat as though I am being forced back into a less interesting life: to go back to what i know.