There is a blue that cannot be described, only breathed.
In Filicudi it is everywhere, in the sky that lowers to touch the sea, in the faded shutters, in the thoughts that slowly loosen, like knots untied by the light.
As soon as I arrived, I realized that I wasn't just going to stop.
I would have let myself go.
I arrived from the sea, on a sailing boat, together with four special friends.
The wind in your hair, the water singing beneath the hull.
Then we hit the ground.
But the images I chose don't tell of our confidences, nor of the light laughter or the improvised Silent Disco in a small square that seemed the perfect stage for an unattended joy.
These shots tell another part of the journey.
More intimate, more silent.
They tell of the quiet that, I imagine, envelops the island when the tourists leave.
And only the sound of the sea and the rustling of the plants resisting the wind remain.
A quiet that is not absence, but a subtle presence.
Even in company, I often feel the need to distance myself.
Not to distance myself from others, but to connect with what surrounds me.
I let the place speak for itself. I try to step aside.
We spent a quick marinade, too little time to absorb and understand the true essence of the island.
But even a drop can leave an impression, if it falls at the right moment, when you are all tense to receive.
So I concentrate. I walk, I observe, I breathe.
I let it pass through me. And slowly, Filicudi begins to speak to me.
With the distant song of a boat offshore.
With the salty smell that gets into your clothes.
With the tenacity of prickly pears clinging to black rocks.
Every glimpse seems to carry with it a fragment of history.
Perhaps not the true history of the island.
But the one that my gaze was able to capture.
And then I take pictures.
Not to keep snapshots, but to remember better.
Because in that instant I press the button, something aligns: the light, the breath, the presence.
And then it remains.
Inside the car.
Inside me.
Filicudi is not an island that can be conquered.
It is an island that welcomes you.
And in return, it whispers something to you.
Staying at home.
If you really listen.
