The landscape is captured in a frame of willows. They are sophisticated traitors, pretending to be part of a natural border, but ever planted there by man driven by the instinct to mark an individual territory on earth. We all need our own private spot. There’s the same gold-coloured carpet of wheat behind those glooming trees, invisible from this point. Still you know it is there, just like the shadows on the walls of the cave reveal that there’s a dancing torch light behind our back. Like the melody of a pop song, ancient wisdom is repeated in an endless number of variations.
Humongous white clouds roll over. I walk on. Do feet recognize the soil on which they stepped before? Can we literally walk back into memories? Like an uninvited guest coming in without knocking on the door, I see this flash of me and my childhood friends playing hide-and-seek in the corn field. I savour a taste of bread rolls and hot chocolate milk, which we used to spill all over the table when we laughed unstoppably for any silly reason and yet tried to drink from our cup. We raced on muddy roads with our bicycles, chasing each other until losing our breath, intoxicated by adrenaline and a sense of reckless freedom. We had not yet lost the gift of imagination and fantasy. We were many and any kind of people in one single day. A formula one racer in our go-kart; a radio DJ announcing the next song on our tape recorder; a circus artist jumping from the bunk bed on a floor full of cushions; a horse in the prairie. We played, on and on. We found 101 different ways to jump into the swimming pool from the side. We climbed trees like monkeys. We hunted insects. We put a cardboard box on our head, to protect it from the impact of chestnuts which the “enemy” was throwing at us from the other side of the attic. We had collected a bucket full of this natural ammunition in the forest earlier in the afternoon, after which we spent hours making our indoor camp to prepare for the battle. We were creative without even knowing there was a word for it.
Humongous white clouds roll over. I walk on. Do feet recognize the soil on which they stepped before? Can we literally walk back into memories? Like an uninvited guest coming in without knocking on the door, I see this flash of me and my childhood friends playing hide-and-seek in the corn field. I savour a taste of bread rolls and hot chocolate milk, which we used to spill all over the table when we laughed unstoppably for any silly reason and yet tried to drink from our cup. We raced on muddy roads with our bicycles, chasing each other until losing our breath, intoxicated by adrenaline and a sense of reckless freedom. We had not yet lost the gift of imagination and fantasy. We were many and any kind of people in one single day. A formula one racer in our go-kart; a radio DJ announcing the next song on our tape recorder; a circus artist jumping from the bunk bed on a floor full of cushions; a horse in the prairie. We played, on and on. We found 101 different ways to jump into the swimming pool from the side. We climbed trees like monkeys. We hunted insects. We put a cardboard box on our head, to protect it from the impact of chestnuts which the “enemy” was throwing at us from the other side of the attic. We had collected a bucket full of this natural ammunition in the forest earlier in the afternoon, after which we spent hours making our indoor camp to prepare for the battle. We were creative without even knowing there was a word for it.
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