How can I tell you about the
person I am? I’ve reinvented myself so many times that I’ve actually lost
track. If we are the sum of all that surrounds us, the sum of all the accessories
that inhabit our space and expose in color what we are, than my life is filled
with gaping holes of mementos that have been left behind time and again. My
past is only a mild reflection in my memory.
Those magic shoe boxes that home
your frozen memories photographed, captured in words, colors and textures that instantly
spiral your senses into times of yore. Those books that told all the stories
that watched you grow; stories that resided in your head for days, even weeks,
and introduced you to people, places, dreams and sensations of different
dimensions. A life made of collectable treasures that we display majestically;
these things, the objects of our affections. Every object, big and small, that
would otherwise be trite becomes a fundamental part of our own composition. This
is precisely what dissolves insipidly in my life with the tired hand of a ticking
clock, with the seeds of absence that stem from my footsteps.
My home has never been a continuous
specific geographic location; there is no room in this world filled with my
scent awaiting my return. My history, all of its accessories and scenes are
mere ghosts. Perhaps I am a ghost as well, one that feeds off your memory, one
that with a touch infiltrated your being to move you if only a little. An impermanent
image that at night rests inside your eyelids before the world rolls to the
back of your head and during the daytime lingers on the whispering wind, the vibration
of an instrument.
It is impossible to tell you
about the person I am when I’ve become unsure of where I came from. It is
probable that the people and the streets that have seen me through have begun
to doubt my very existence. In the spirit of tradition, once again it’s time to
change the pace. To kiss these cold walls which have echoed my laughter and my
cries goodbye, to undress these shelves of my memories and stuff them in my
pockets. I am a traveler without keys, returning to basics. I can dispense
everything because when it comes down to the bone, all that I truly own travels
with me.
In the end I may be able to tell
you a bit about the person I have been, but it’s nonsense to speculate about
the person that I am or where I will be. One thing is for sure: I won’t be here
so don’t look for me because you won’t find me.
