I was there

On maps, everything is still, and within borders peacefully settled, it is designed. Nothing is visible from above except some names, signs, and numbers. Truly, the soul of a geography is not in these lines and conventions. A city has identity with its citizens; the citizen who builds the memory of the city. They have agency and constantly redefine their own narrative of the city. They add new borders to the map; perhaps wounds flowing from their memory that breathe life into this colorless aerial image. From this street, only a fragment of a photo remains for them. This small photo is a patch with which they want to tear open the cold skin of the map to remember something. Something in the body of a photo that does not even show a lively color. It seems to speak of something that has gone, and time has gradually dissolved it into the imposed order from above, into the left image. In any case, this is an image that bears witness to being at a certain time; that I was there, I lived and I saw.

O observers in the sky, this line is mine, my color, my image, and ultimately, this city is mine.