My mal d'Afrique is not nostalgia
it is thirst
thirst for human energy
voices
smells so familiar, in the morning when I wake up, at the end of a dream taking me out there ...
thirst for strong hands taking mine along the way,
thirst for never feeling myself alone;
for smiles,
for voices calling my name and not tedious ring tones out of the phones;
for glances making me understand and not avoid what I can't understand.
Thirst for doing works, repairing things, feeling pains, singing joys, waiting for time...
Thirst for feeling Coldness when it's cold, and Warmth when it's warm.
Thirst for contradictions, so many to make out their Absolute coherence.
My mal d'Afrique is a sudden need; it comes between my thoughts, bright, like the game and the voice of a child breaking a boresome speech; careless of anything and anyone, it distracts my attention with no half measures.
It is an explosion of joy and a lump in my throat, strong like huge waves with those rollers suddenly sucking, overturning, making lose the sense of direction; and the more you look for a grip, with your fingers into the sand, the more you realize that is useless and you only have to let yourself go, turn yourself and go around with no direction, without knowing if you'll have enough breath but enjoying that real Life flowing in your body in that moment of pure energy.