Every Picture Tells a Story

The faces of India...

Golden Temple, Amritsar

Oct 31, 2007

The India that moves us,

the India that stimulates our thoughts or blocks us from feeling any emotion whatsoever.

I keep my head outside the window the whole trip, to taste India and have her in my face.

Dust, air, sounds and odors take my mind in various directions.

I don't like having too much time to think, I'm not longer able to be alone with myself.

I already have tears in my eyes thinking that the colors, the sounds, the music will be nothing but a memory. Impossible hours, a future that should never have existed and that only the coincidences of my life brought me to discover.

Coincidences determine too much, and "not all evils come to hurt us." Too many times lately I've asked myself where I would be or what would have happened if I had done this rather than that.

I have a sort of unfocused image of something that should have been really important, a while ago, when my life was different. All these responsibilities, these plans. Then you discover that, for better or for worse, life goes on wherever you are.

Circumstances and coincidences change us. It's no longer nature that is in constant evolution, but myself who is evolving. I want to write songs and fantasize about a future that has nothing to do with what I used to think was the only plausible reality, or what others expected of me. I discover that it's hard for me to answer the question: "Why have you come to India?" because it seems as if I'm being asked who I am, and I don't know. Everything is up for discussion, the most abstruse memories come floating up thanks to the force of time and distance.

A hug from someone you've known for a few months is worth gold, because you both know from experience that you must hold each other tight in moments like these, in a place where all of a sudden your life, like your mood, can change. On the other hand are the coincidences, or fate if you want to call it that, which pushes us to tempt fortune - and get slapped by reality.

The reality is that everything passes, one way or another. So Elisa and I decide to hug each other, mixing our blond tresses, laughing and crying. We'll write a song, improvising it on the sofa at Shanti with he who accompanies us on the guitar. We'll laugh about the past, while now we cry, hoping for a future which, if it wasn't for coincidences, we would never know.

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