On stoicism


A while ago, I stumbled upon an old issue of Purpose magazine and I was really moved by a documentary on present-day slaves in France by Raphaël Dallaporta and Ondine Millot. The text  tell the story of 11 women who have been cheated in to slave labour for affluent families. The color photographs only show the building where their ordeal took place. The objectivity of the images contrast with the poignant tales of abject human behavior endure by naïve souls who were lured by the prospect of a better future for themselves or their family back home. I have long been fascinated by stories, fictional or real of people living in near isolation, voluntary or inflicted. The silence, the edge of madness, the lack of affection and communication, the forced withdrawal into oneself  is compelling enough to enter ones sanity through the exit door. As the daily ray of sunshine comes bouncing in the kitchen, I grab the DLux and narrow my universe to this one room. In an instant, my past, present and future flash in front of me. Nothing matters and everything matters. I am alive but above all I am free and I can play with that freedom. I choose where I want to be and no matter how many times I will find myself incapable of going further than my own neurasthenia, nobody has control over my movement but myself. I wish that somebody, somewhere right now is gaining or regaining his/her freedom.

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