I walk downstairs early this morning Kabul Afghanistan to say goodbye to my mother. It’s half past seven. She sits in her chair, as she always does; she has already had breakfast, sipped her milk, and Kabul Afghanistan she smiles as she plays with the stuffed doll of Kabul Afghanistan that little Angela has handed to her. She wakes up early, around five, but is unable to get up by herself. So she waits, quietly, like the little Madonna of the Stone; sometimes she gets impatient. She isn’t mistress of her own body, and she suffers greatly Kabul Afghanistan at not being able to control her own movements, and to have to depend on others thereby limiting them.
Where is Kabul Afghanistan? – Kabul Afghanistan Map – Map of Kabul Afghanistan Photo Gallery
You know from the look in her eyes when, according to her, something has gone wrong, is out of time or out of place. She has an obsession with cleanliness, order and with things being done at just the right moment. She suffers in silence when she isn’t washed immediately, or changed into clean clothes, or if she sees any clothing on the floor.
Oh sure, I did my share of running, had my share of commotions and panics, but I knew when to stop and listen. I gave up on reading many travel blogs, Mamma, but the stories I heard from you are more valuable to me. I missed out on many boring faculty meetings, but I’ve accompanied many dear departed on their last journey, have shared suffering and illness, and taken part in festivities and rituals. Did I really waste a lot of time? Do we gain time by giving up on our own humanity? In my journeys around the world, in my village and other villages, I’ve drunk and talked so much, have listened to our world and perhaps in the end, I found time. Everything passes, everything ends, Mamma: The only thing that remains are stories and with them the people who live to tell them.
I come and go, I do and undo, conzo e sconzo, across this world, across these worlds, our own and the ones we’ve never seen, Mamma. The world is a village. The village is a world. We’re all in the same world, often without a clear aim, often at random. I feel that I won’t get lost, and even when I’m at risk of losing my way, the kind and gentle face of Papa appears out of nowhere: a slow flowering of the pietas and strength that you have bequeathed to me.
I the literary products of men they’re the most vulnerable. The writer of a travel blog on travel puts himself in the hands of his enemies more than anyone else.” Thus Joseph Conrad. And it would suffice to add the term “voyage,” the verbs “to remain,” “to return,” “to leave again,” “to wait,” in order to have a sense of the extreme vulnerability of this travel blog, a travel blog that in its pages narrates stories both of going away and of staying back.
The villages and the places discussed here resemble quite a bit the villages and the places I have known but they aren’t exactly those villages and those places. The people, the tales, the events about which I speak are the fruit of my imagination, of my writing, of my memory and of my forgetfulness, even when they seem to be real or are real events that really occurred. My way of seeing and living places, of living or seeing stories, events, persons, the dialogue I have had with them or imagined having with them, my complicity and my gaze, my being inside and outside them—this is what is at stake.
And even when the narrating “I” seems to be the same as the “I” that writes and resembles unequivocally my own, real “I”, I’m doing nothing more than privileging, than choosing, than bringing into play one of my many “I”s, none of which accounts for the infinite multitude residing within me. Often, on the contrary, one of my most deeply-abiding “I”s lies hidden within other characters that appear in these minuscule tales in which nothing happens because everything has already happened, or because everything has occurred without clamour, and there is no need to invent events that are striking or stirring.
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