What a strange thing it is to walk all alone in the cold drizzly streets of the city, going back and forth in a time cycle that has no end nor beginning. I’m carrying a broken watch in my right pocket, the hand tightly grasping it, I walk with thin water in my glasses and through those polka-dotted windows I see those pieces, all dazzled, all messed up, this pieces of memories, right in front of my eyes. And in time I realize that I don’t care. It’s frozen on 4 o’clock, the watch. If before or afternoon doesn’t matter, it doesn’t cares. And the fragments of it’s stopped time are all around, coming and going back and forth in a time cycle that has no end nor beginning. I shall call it life.
What a awkward thing it is to stay all alone in your home, to stay inside of your own tower, and see the time passing, not speaking a single word all day, not seeing a living thing for so many hours, and thinking about so many things, that all seems to be otherworldly, in another time and space. But not, it isn’t. And you wake up back to life. The memories, so vivid, they are true. The people, so colorful, they are real. And slowly you do accept to be driven back to this infinite loop of experiences, of vinegar and salt, this huge bittersweetness. That strange thing, we shall call life.
This is the third paragraph.
¹ in time: indian ink on layout 180g paper. 35 minutes from first sketch to done.