Here’s to all the people that photobomb my holiday pictures, unsuspecting exhibitionists in my summer memories. After a while, I become fonder of them than of the places I’ve visited. They now seem to know me better than most of my friends and relatives, we start sharing secrets and unspeakable thoughts, we become connected by an invisible red line, that passes through all the virtual mess and intimate celluloid of our afterlife.
I’m sure that somewhere, in Russia, or maybe in the Czech Republic, there’s some poor *** schmuck that’s working up the nerve to ask me out for a drink or for some pasta, not caring that I’m rushing through his photo, on my way to a public restroom, or a bar that serves all you can eat, drink and love.
The photos holding the proof of my existence in a certain moment are facing the ground, while their owners rehearse their speech in front of the mirror, leaving me and all the other tourists through life behind the black hole library shelf, in perfect equilibrium, not knowing if I’m coming or leaving - an impersonal group of pixels and dots, on a white piece of character.
Here’s to all the strangers in my heart! Here’s to all the hearts to whom I’m a stranger!