memories of a woman

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memories of a woman

Dust, and darkness. Dust, and smoke, and dirt, and darkness.

Nothing seemed to be left of the old universe of strong emotions, smiles and happiness of the years that had gone by.
If one had looked just swiftly at what was left of this tiny old woman, he would most probably not have recognised her face, her hair, nor her body, for the irreversible passing of time had changed them so much one could hardly pretend it hadn’t.

And yet if only one had looked a little more attentively at her, he would have seen that she was still the same as she used to be, that very child, that smiley , that very same and then the mature person that humanity had known her for. It was simply by a more careful glance had at her watery blue eyes that one would have known immediately who he was standing in front of.

In her sight and just in there, one could have read every single page of this woman’s existence, as if they had been the physical expression of an , or rather of a story never to be told.

In those sad eyes, once filled with light-heartedness and zest for life, one could read a carefree childhood and then death, a lost house, and the , then the miserable feeling of having been left alone; one could see the war, perhaps more destructive as interior force to herself than as something which was happening out there. One could see flows of tears, then spreads of joy, and then the cruelty of fate which had slowly taken them away, one by one, till nothing was left of them.

In those watery blue eyes, you could see all this, a relict of a woman, the ghost of someone’s happiness destroyed by the of this world.

Texts by Laura ”Croft” Vivio 

  • ApertureValue: f/16
  • ExposureTime: 1/25 sec
  • FocalLength: 44 mm
  • ISOSpeedRatings: 100
  • Model: Canon EOS 550D

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