I am here now, but I am elsewhere as well. I rub my face, the sunburn in January is just the same, just colder. I rub my eyes, they shiver, there are smokes to be smoked and drinks to be drunk and photographs to be taken – knowing that I will look upon myself in these as if I were already old, because, you know?, when you hear that shutter being released, you know that one minute later, you won’t be the same, a day later, you will be different, a month later, your hair will have grown, your thighs will have widened or thinned, your lips could be sore and yourself, shut to the core. Because, you see how very funny it is that a month ago, you were different, through all the places you wandered, through every glimpse you stole, through every piece of spice and candy you swallowed, recklessly, clumsily, candidly, letting hunger of all things other than food feast on everything it didn’t want or need. It’s just how we live, never feeding on what we’re hungry for.
Christmas came and went, quickly, mercilessly. Just how people do, and cars, and light dreams or vivid nightmares. I am still here, here there’s still me. Today I am a bit of yesterday, and a bit of last week, and a bit of who I was when I didn’t know who I was. The stories that I take up where other people have left them, the clothes that I clutter up into different closets and stories than those which they had first lived in, the words, and songs, and snapshots that I’ve cluttered up into myself, the handshakes, the let-go-s, the accidental touch-and-collide, the silent hugs and loans of skin warmth, during nights which seem to glide above and gaze dangerously deep into the most intimate parts of your heart and vanities, the noise of a city bigger and smaller than you had expected, yourself, bigger and smaller than you had expected. The girl with matchstick legs and striped socks, during lonely summer camps and a first series of firsts. The girl with long black boots and a coat that weighs a little less than all the things that added up to the girl herself, along so many years and so many smiles and tears and white or grey Christmases. I had to move past myself to get a grip of myself.
text written by Cristina Barna from Five inch memories
pictures taken both in Romania and in the U.S.
Check out Cristina’s blog for more