Each time I find myself in a new place, writing a postcard for us, I hear in my head, over and over, “Oh, darling, I miss you” singed by Dido, in the featured song with Faithless – Postcards Rewritten.

We all have something to remember the places we visit. For a long time I’ve collected fridge magnets, but there’s not an empty spot anymore for them. Buying souvenirs seemed exhausting and I didn’t had much space to keep everything. So in order to have a sweet memory and thanks God to Mrs. Bean, who was sending postcards to himself, I’ve started with the same. You cannot imagine the happiness I find in the mailbox together with a postcard from a place we’ve visited some time before. It is of course really annoying when they aren’t delivered – which happened with the postcards with Picasso paintings from Malaga. I don’t write long messages, only short opinions, about the state of mind at that moment and small impressions about what we visit. And somehow this is helping me keeping the memory fresh, because I remember almost each spot in the town were I’ve stayed to write it, how I’ve tried to write something short and essential about the trip. I think only once or twice I’ve really put effort in writing them and, unfortunately, there are months since I’ve sent them, but never received them.

I love hand writing. I have, under the bed, hundred of letters from different pen friends from high school. One love relation kept only on paper, one real friendship transformed in something else, unknown. Postcards, letters, diaries. I am not able to read them anymore, they contain the thoughts of a so long gone person, that, even with the ones I’ve wrote, I feel like perturbing the intimacy of a friend. I have many notebooks, almost each day I’m thinking to start keeping a diary, but after writing 5 lines I feel numb. I am not able anymore to write more than 10 pages with everything, stupid thoughts flowing around. So, writing a postcard, from time to time, is somehow like a return to the other p., the acirtep which is awaiting, for the right moment, to show up, to start writing the story, which is kept in the box under the bed, in the black box in my mind, in the short, but multiplied, impulse of neurons.