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If a friend asks me about a specific place, how it was there, to travel through or have being there, I can only rely on my feeling but not only on my memories as they would pale by the effort of substantiate them. But there are these moments, you are wasted and arrive home, at your home far away from what is usually presented as home, disconnected, under the shower late night and suddenly you are on the Philippines, passing through a city called Bagiou, after my trip up to the Kalinga tribe, and you are there, searching for the bus to Manila, being lost in transfer, and everything is there, the colours the noise even not hearable but you can listen to if you want to hear, smell, the sweat running down your spine, the hunger you felt late morning after being shaken up by a rough mountain road. How do these puzzle pieces evolve in a memory and find their way to the surface of what we call real, back to now? Was I in this moment of now back in the past dreaming, creating this future framework for me? Like dreaming of being able to live in this part of the world and falling in love and feeling like home here because my heart found its beat? Is this memory triggered because it was never a memory, it was a pulsing moment of a fugitive possibility, of a peaceful commitment to superstition. – Only we are possible, not limits. I love to wander only for these moments of recurrence, because memories are now and forever never existent.