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Pascale Marthine Tayou. “Plastic Bags”. Photo De Meelfabriek, Leiden.

― Where do the plastic bags swept away by the wind go?
And I told you. With the natural way suitable for a storyteller, which heart guesses the urgent omens of time, and hurries the cup of a perfect and shivering ending, I unfolded out one by one the words and the images before you. Words and images impossible to understand for this nature lover and fervent environmentalist I have always been, but full of sense and certainness for a lover heart willing to answer the calling of your sweet eyes.
Far beyond, at the end of all paths of the world, where the arms of wind fall down exhausted, and found a peaceful haven and quietness, there, can you see it?, shakes in a subtle sizzle, the flickering texture of every plastic bag around the world that was rapt by swirls and gales. Never reached by anyone, in its unstoppable rolling and twisting through the air, going across cities and deserts, mountains and valleys, rivers and oceans devastated by voracious human traces, or still flawless in its untouched, protective isolation; there, raises up a kingdom of frail and colorful forms clinging to every single thing they touch, with a gentleness of hands made of translucent steles. As soft cloaks of mild flour, they knead a dance of shimmering shapes making up figures, covering ancient walls and old tree skeletons with their bulging bodies, sated with the air that gave them wings and placed them upon that unknown land.
Imagine that. Beyond measure, endless, riddled with the vibrant murmuring of those forms, greeting the sunset as burning, multicolored flames, that distant corner of the earth bursts, rapt by life and raving tones at every twilight in the world. An abomination lack of beauty for the eyes of those who advocate for a greener and happier life in this planet, but full of a loveliness beyond all rule and reply for your eyes, for your hands and your inexhaustible laughing of those days, when the breeze, as herald of rains, dragged some of them before you, when you ran after them until getting reached, to face my eyes asking you take them and put them into the next bin. I can see your face now, turning back once in a while towards the lonely shape poking out from the trash, with that hint of sadness from someone who leaves an unexpected friend of adventures, giver of happiness and partying.
I told you this story as a final gesture that I owed to you, before your little and frail body was gone forever. And I know, with a certainness beyond all possible doubt, that when your eyes were finally closed, you departed full of those figures and forms I made up for you, inhabiting into them, running and jumping, in a last reencounter with those that once you had to leave behind. That maybe you have remained there forever, and that you will know how since then I run after every single plastic bag rapt by the wind, putting them away into my pockets, stealthily, to set them free one by one, hoping they will reach that dreamed place, carrying my last messages to you.

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