Dull existence

I lead a minimalist, routine, cramped, minimalist life. I need to escape, to explore, to see something else. The world can't be so poor, so reduced to a restricted series of utilitarian places, ugly areas where nothing is possible. There must be something to see, something to do. There must be territories still hidden, where everything is untouched. There has to be.

Pilgrimage

She was back in town today, and on the way to the Fair, to go for a ride on the ghost train, we passed – as we do every time we see each other again – 29 rue de la Source. Only this time I had the idea of ringing someone's doorbell, at random, and going in to take photos in the inner courtyard. Neither of us had been there for years, maybe five or six years. It was exciting as a kid's joke: ringing all the doorbells and waiting for someone to open.

She rang the bell at random and, after several unsuccessful attempts, explained to one of the residents that she had lived here and wanted to take some pictures of the courtyard. So we went in. I went in with a light heart, it was nothing more than a little touristy stroll for me, but she, as soon as she entered the corridor, went from laughing to sobbing in an instant; this surprised me but was, in fact, obvious. Behind the harmlessness of this little excursion, something much deeper and more painful was going on. I was almost grateful to him for shedding those tears.

The walls had been painted white. The shutters of her old flat were closed and we rang the bell but nobody opened. We didn't pass anyone in the stairwell. There was no noise, no smell. It was a horribly sad moment, but with my camera, shooting every five seconds, I felt a little protected, as if I was outside what was happening. Fortunately, everything became lighter when we went back out into the inner courtyard. The pilgrimage had been made.