Unlived passion

This is about a little boy. Something singular about him, a sense of loneliness. As I look at him, in 1882, he stands on his own in a field, nothing around. Empty. I can’t even see his smile. He stares at me, hat on his head, leather boots on his feet, freckles on his cheeks. Time goes. Illusion of time goes too.

The boy has grown, still alone, he is looking at the window behind which the city lives, cars pass, and life goes on. He feels transparent, spectator, not actor. Then the town disappears. We jump and land years later. Back in a field not far from what seems to be the start of a forest. An old man is seated on his own on a low stool made of wood with three feet. I come closer, he does not seem to notice me, I can’t define or find any emotion on his eyes. I turn around and observe what he looks at. In front of him, fifty meters away, are hanged, on several lines of strings some blank pages. I am too far, I can’t really see. Is it a collection of white posters, a succession of washed-out racking? Some piece of white canvas awaiting some colours, some writing, some drawings? The virgin pages of a giant notebook that have been detached and hung one by one? They are all there, aligned and softly floating in the wind. Reflecting the light and also the emptiness. Is it what’s left of an entire life? Some white pieces ready to fly away or to be washed by the rain? Thousand of questions run in my head, but the old man won’t answer them. I know this. This I know. He is alone, at the end as he was at the beginning, and the silence has lasted in between. The passion is there in front of him. Left behind, ignored, forgotten all these years. Still awaiting an actor to start playing the scene, filling the space of some white squares, putting a smile on a neutral gaze.