Once I had a chance to stay in an old castle. It was a lonely one on top of a mountain, with a small chapel and an old lady as a house-keeper. Everything there was old. Even the photographs of the owners in the master bedroom were of two centuries ago.
I explored the castle alone early in the morning and late at night. I merged myself into "the past" there. I took photographs, lots of photographs, for trying to capture the feel of the space, and of what has been.
I came back to Firenze and was too busy with school. But I often looked at the contact sheets of those photographs in the quiet of the nights. I merged myself into the place through the tiny pictures on the sheets again and again night by night.
Along with that, my homesickness became unbearable. I felt like the longing was so great that it turned into a despair. I wrote a lot of notes in my journal during this time because I couldn't share it with anybody, and I could not bear it:
"The Present keeps hold of me.
I wish, I thirst to be back
at that moment in the Past.
I can’t.
I can never be back there again.
I feel desperate,
I feel like lack of air,
I can’t breathe.
The sky outside the window
so blue and so high,
I wish I can fly."
The Past came out as a cure. I buried all in there. And I walked away.
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