I had lunch with my family today at Bon Vie , and as I was laughing and measuring other people in the restaurant and having a good laugh with family when I was brought back to this journal. Why am I writing it, why now? I asked my mother the same question, last night I went out to have a few drinks, the result is always the same, a few drinks are never just a few, they turn into many. But I finally feel that certain things I need to do. Drinking too much once a week and finally putting my story down on paper, or in this case in my blog.
My bedroom has always been a refuge, inside it I can write, paint and organize my thoughts, I was fifteen when I started translating my grandfather's exile documents. He was taken to a haven in the countryside of Genoa, there he rested and managed to make a new life for him, it feels as if our family has chasing a future that is leading to the past. We returned to the U.S. in '98 to start fresh, to get away from Europe and South America. For a while it seemed as if life was fresh and new, after thirteen years of going and coming back, I notice myself looking at old photos, tracking our home on google earth, simply to get a glimpse of the earth I miss so much.
Life is so strange, you want to get away from home for reasons only you and the people from that land understand, only to spend your entire life attempting to return home. I feel like that lately, wanting to return.
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