Wide open windows to the sky
The gloomy November morning gathered a flock of crows on the little patch of burnt grass, settled in the Primăverii neighborhood. The buildings, still moist after a light, but persisting rain, like multicolored pieces of Lego, merged unexpectedly, rise defiantly on the tongue of the street.
The windows begin to light up one after the other, illuminated in hues of dirty yellow and silver; with curtains, with blinds, others are just bare windows inviting you to discover their loose privacy.
With a step forward and one backward, always between yesterday and tomorrow, we live in a question without answer: does the night end or the morning begin? And if it is a day when we can change everything, why don’t we see it, although our eyes are wide open?
Bucharest wakes up. The arteries of the city gradually begin to be crossed by cars with drivers who are searching for something, half asleep. Their automatic gestures reveal the monotony in which they bath like in a warm muddy puddle, like a drop of water in the fractured asphalt, sometimes dreaming of being a drop of ocean.
Every man tells two stories: one to himself, and one to the others. Most of the time, these two stories do not bare resemblance to one another. Most of the time, we wake up and wish we were in another story.
This is how the story of The Harlequin, yet untold, begins…