Perhaps that's what I came for. To live the wilderness.
Or perhaps I came as a reporter.
Her hand upraA contour of absence. She watches it shake in its loneliness. She tries to make time stop. To live to its utmost the sweetness of this feeling of fragmentation as though suddenly life had become a theatrical performance and she was to play the most gripping scene. The most unexpected perhaps. The last.
She smiles.
Yes, I came as a reporter, she says alone as if for it to be heard by the empty setting of the garden, where she is still standing, with her suitcase in her hand and her dyed hair.
It's strange. From the moment she set foot there she had lost control of what happened to her. She tries to understand. Old houses are kind she thinks. And I need something exciting to write about to keep my job.
Motionless. She becomes lost in memories flooding back uncontrollaby. He is there. The lover of her youth. His face in the mist, behind the winter morning, a sensation gliding through, shattered like banished happiness.
She puts her suitcase on a step. Time eludes her. She tries to estimate the interval but time slips through her thoughts like dark invisible water. "I 'm getting old. I 'm not interested in in reporting. I 'm empty".
She looks at the empty house in front of her. It 's her house. Passionately tied to her youth. She is struck by the word "passionately". Only time is passionately tied to our lives, the time we live through, like the fragments of a paradise that touched our days, touched our lives perhaps before us.