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  • A long time ago, when my land was more than a landscape, I remember a drama professor who was talking about “the absence through the presence”. I could not resist an ironic grin as I heard the phrase: another verbalistic inanity, typical of academics, I thought.

    The other day, however, this phrase emerged from the depths of my memory to acquire substance: in a shared patio, there was an empty chair facing a small orange tree, sprouting off a flower-pot, with just one fruit. Surely there must have been a perfect explanation of how this setting was materialised, but to apply reason in order to explain the extraordinary rather corresponds to psychologists. Sometimes it just takes an image to detonate a memory that was imperceptibly out of tune for years: the orange was present and so was the chair, but at the same time they were indisputable monuments of absence.

    Some days later, the chair was not there anymore, but the orange was: alone, persevering. No one was able to remember since when it was hanging there. In my land, in a time when it was more than a landscape, orange trees did not grow on pots and their fruits were juicy and sweet. This one is definitely bitter, like solitude itself. And hence, persevering, like all the memories pending to be attuned.
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