1994

I'm more the type of person who, at the end of a dark, rainy night, is filled with life and looks at the horizon line trying to spot her childhood.

Rainy autumn days are most representative of my childhood and the feeling is quite sweet, despite the sadness such a view can convey.

To be more precise, it's the greyness of the clouds; the darkness of the ground that was once dry. The dark green of the leaves in the trees.

Three pine trees, an apple tree and a couple plum trees. The splashing of the cars' wheels on the road in front of the house. A white car, a blue car, a red car, a dark blue car. (Dear cars, they belonged to dear people).

The feeling that the world was once little, whenever I heard the noise of the rain falling on the metal roof tiles.

All this screams 90s to me. It always has. I was born in 1994 and I've only spent four years of my life here, where I'm writing from, until we left. But still, in those first four years, this image has been absorbed by my mind and by my instinct forever.

This

makes me think once again, that time is just a word. Time does not exist after all, it's all a big, long, hypnotic now.

90s, rain, cloudy sky. It's one of the most comfortable and easy thoughts I can have. But not just any rain, not just

any ground,

not just any trees, nor any leaves.

The trees in this garden. And just at the break of dawn, not

earlier, nor later. Just

when

there isn't enough light to be able to tell what year it is.