Chloe R

I'll tell you a strange story.. I am..the one who.. " ... in Singapore, again was taking refuge with the same Friends... ..When they asked her where Simo was she told the truth: "I don't know". She spent her days reading, by the edge of the small pool of their residence, almost always empty, except for a few children from the building who came to swim. She bought fruit and food from the stalls, along the street... At night.. ..she walked to the nearest seven eleven.. She was the only Westerner in the neighborhood. She felt like she was convalescing. She began to feel the need for decisions. Soon her Visa would expire.. You couldn't stay on the island... you wanted to stay you wanted to stay away from another one.. as always in the red with money. She knew people scattered all over the world, but she had no reason to reach anyone. On the whole planet there was no place where her presence made a precise sense, nor a place she really needed... ..and if she managed to do the kind of work... of passion she wanted... ...WRITE.. she would be, even more detached. She and the world seemed to have a relationship Free and Open and it's hard to say what it was.. whether a sense of independence or petty uselessness... In the small overheated room of the Planet she knew she would find everywhere the same uneasiness, the same widespread anxiety.. like a global virus.. ...it was everything that the contemporary era was really globalizing, and it was, deep down, just one, big and eternal question: << what am I doing here?>> Maybe she was just a little depressed. She got off the plane tanned and melancholic. She hadn't been home for a while, and everything, seemed the same and different. The landscape, the houses, the red light clock in the industrial area. In the following months, both cleared up: her skin and her mood. In the land where she had grown up she only learned to have no destiny, just days following one another... each miraculous, each ordinary. She detested that kind of rhetoric.. "return to the roots", "settle down", "grow up"... simply... she had stopped feeling actively involved by certain words... "young", "traveller", "raiver"... Coming-of-age novels usually ended with the achievement of words in which to identify, roles to enter... All that was once called: finding an identity. Now she understood it was the opposite. It was, in reality, about abandoning words... detaching pieces of the world from herself... like a sculpture that emerges by removing the rock, which is in excess. ..and managing to do it... despite the world, increasingly sticky, invasive, tight. A fire broke out behind the scenes in a theater. A clown came out on stage and warned the audience. The spectators thought it was a joke and applauded. The clown repeated the announcement, to ever greater amusement of those present. That's how, I imagine, the world will end destroyed: amidst the general hilarity of the jokers, convinced that it's all a game. Soren Kierkegaard ...an old Breton ... detached from common rules, from this false personality Balinese on a holiday ... in the summer dance halls where pairs of elderly people dance to a 7/8 rhythm Venice-Istanbul Noah's Ark The king of the world - it was days in May and among us we joked about picking nettles - ..how difficult it is to find the dawn inside the dusk...