When I was a little boy, I was afraid of the dark, of being alone. I couldn’t imagine that as an adult I’d develop a pleasure for loneliness. Back then, It took so little to shake me, every little movement, when I was alone at home, would startle me.
Where are our fears encoded? How deep? For how long do they leave our subconscious scarred?
It was last Christmas Eve, I was taking photographs on the beach. Lonely, dark, except for the full moon shining through the sea. Standing out in the moonlight, the thin silhouette of the remains of a burnt tree.
If all is silent around me, I can maybe exhume the black box of those primordial fears, remove, layer by layer, the dust, the mud, the blood accumulated in these thirty years, leaving everything buried.
I want to see them face-to-face, focus them, watch them under a microscope.
I walk back on the beach, against the wind. Then I look back, and have one final listen to the sound of the waves.