I am flying back to the Outpost tomorrow. I am really looking forward to going back home, but not the place surrounding its walls. This time the Home City really got me, this time it appeared real: less idyllic but closer to my dreams than before, less charming and accessible but vibrant — and you know that ‘vibrant’ is the word — or, at least, one of them — for us. Sometimes, spring being here, it would even occasionally look gloriously urban (in this light of its) and oh so boisée.
This feeling of sly ambivalence oozing inside me while not even making a clear presence of any sort is certainly accentuated by the light and troubled nap I took in my childhood bedroom, after lunch alcohol and the company of withering parents, in their modest flat exposed to neighbours’ laughs, baby screams and slamming doors and cupboards. I woke up from it into the dying light of spring dusk.