Our migrations transform our lives and, who knows, perhaps our deaths. Our migrations are what we are, what we are becoming. What can we say, in these times of upheaval, as in all times, that upheavals lead to metamorphoses, in everyone, in time, against time...
Changes, transformations whose perception often escapes the present and is revealed later. Light generally emerging from darkness. Sunrises or sunsets in the heart of your lives, our migrations become forms, materials; sources of conversion. A before, an after, around, at the threshold, of a being.
Thus, the deployment of light as well as wind seem to be able to tell our migrations. Each one of us perceives, feels and lives them, in his or her own body and mind. Like a construction site in the course of our lives and our death.
Our migrations could thus be understood, not as problems, as sufferings (without ignoring them, according to the free perception of each one), but as paths of transformation, even resurrection. Do they not become, in our image, singularly lived, in our uniqueness as living beings. Living as a migrant. I am a migrant as you know how to be. Our migrations intersect, intertwine, mingle, intermingle. Disrupted lives, agitated lives. Lives.
As in life, death is, for most of us, an end; in our migrations, there is no deadline, no end but constantly renewed passages. Migrations, ways of the past and the future, together, conjugated in the present. Destructions, deconstructions, constructions, of new things. New landscapes, within us, around us, emerge. Migrations as a change of perception... on our migrations.