Letters from home

For a moment, I overlay the past onto the present, projecting the images and immersing myself in that finite time where light still exists. I manipulate the past, driven by the desire to experience an event a second time. I transform my powerlessness into power. The shadow line left by my body becomes a threshold for a possible journey. There comes a moment when the map of our memories no longer matches the geography of our present. We realise we have truly grown up — swept away by a strange, disquieting feeling of no longer belonging to any place, to any time. The home we leave behind keeps living inside us, quietly. It sinks its delicate roots into a land in-between, and begins to migrate — to nowhere.