Who doesn't hate Mondays? The week is just beginning, but we're allowed to dream it ends, right? We're always allowed in our Monday dreams to grab the imaginary suitcase (filled with books, clothes and maps), take the old camera, a pair of sunglasses from some summer collection of the 70s (actually inherited from granny), take your loved one by the hand and jump in the dusty little convertible, which still hibernates in the garage... Departure. To infinity. Indefinitely. Not that we know where we are going, not that it matters at all. The road is filled with summer breezes and good music, food in roadside eateries and quarrels about the right way on the map. Because we don't know where we're going and each one of us insists. But this is the best about it. And it doesn't matter if we take trusted friends with us, or we meet them on the road. The important thing is that we'll travel with this immeasurable passion of the traveler, with the whole world, that is only waiting and wanting us to go around it, to see it... And with all the adventurous blood running in our veins. We will eat hamburgers in roadside stations, licking our fingers from all the sweets and cotton candy on our lips, will watch each other trough the holes of the donuts, will pick blackberries from the bushes on the deserted road, or eat pretentious fish specialties in some small wooden restaurant on the beach. We will read on the road, we'll buy books about endless trips and new meetings, about finding yourself, about rediscovering the world. Riding on Ferris wheels and fun-fairs until midnight, until we get sick, drunk, we'll win teddy bears from the stands as the last star burns out. Staying in a cheap motel, bathing in the endless sea, in the ocean, burying our fingers in the sand, we will dream about starfishes under the heat of the night fire, under the glimpses of the stars, under the cold blankets of the salty waves... And we'll make photos, lots of photos. Of everything and everyone we meet on the road, whose eyes will tell us a story, deeply buried in him, a memory, a secret ... We'll make meaningless imaginary shots, until the imaginary photo strip ends and we capture each imaginary memory.
I want summer. I know it sounds trivial, but I want summer.