They come, they go, but she stays
and never goes.
Flocks of
tourist descend upon the place she always called home and because she has
always called this place home, there is nothing significant that she can place
her finger on as to why anyone would love it so much. She looks to her right,
apprehensively, with apprehensive eyes, clean bar and bottles, aware that with
travel, comes travellers who want to blend their experience with a bit of
drunken delirium, one-night stands, lingering nostalgia and hindsight, where
all markets, girls at bars and regrets will never be to be no more.
Henri Cartier-Bresson could have
easily been one of those transients to the exotic unexplored becoming the
exploited cliché destination, his photograph complicit, an aggravating
accessory so beautifully displayed in immortality, still image of a woman who
clearly has indifference to who comes, who goes, because she’ll never go to
return.
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