In Absentia

Silence, a thundering noise muffling through one’s ears to climb up to the brain and triumph in a mute nothingness. 

A constant weakness, a craving nostalgia that comes out of gut to rise energetically up and finally release in an unidentifiable sensation, in an oxymoronic circus of touch, sight and smell.

In the absentia of stability, of an army of well-ordered cobblestones standing under our cozy livingroom loafers, of a match that awakens the light of creativity, of an axiom to entrust and to which delegate prefabricated consciences, uncountable doubts crumbled into a maelstrom of ideas and impalpable yet utopian definable holograms. In absentia of being able to take something for granted and established, in absentia of fixed points; we do have to start all over again.

Let the genius emerge, free from the bottle, let it hover itself in the ether and release its essence like it were a rainbow made up of a thousand shaped and coloured diamond fragments. 

Let’s give priority to appearances and to the suit that makes the man, let’s make the comfort zone a box from which memories and unleash epiphanies could be easily drawn; let’s make the new normality and the new smart working comfy outfit one’s future canvas to caress, flip, reinvent and then lay down on emotional fantasies and picturesque sensations. Let’s make one’s physical comfort become a psychological one, let’s feel good in one’s skin, whatever it’s covered by, because it is the only accessory so indispensable to deserve a dedicated  hendecasyllables written epopee.

Every epoch to be called such must have a beginning and an end, each determined by more or less allegorical catastrophes, more or less theatrical revolutions and characters with more or less epic shades; each one and all of them sharing a common denominator made of new beginnings, new possibilities, new realities, new wings to spread, new concepts to identify with.

In fashion history, for example, the Twenties fringes replaced the bustini and skirts of the late nineteenth century and the coat with waistcoat and wig finally flooded each one of London lords’ wardrobe since the 1666 Plague on. What will living in the post-2020 era involve is an unstoppable becoming, an unleashed, endless reverberations in pastel shades, or a blinding and indefinable bunch of colour codes enclosed in small boxes of multiple shapes and sizes; where each one of them is made up of feelings and emotions, increased senses, eventually brought to their apex by a leitmotif that each of us would be able to give birth to, by a bond so strong and identifying with the individual that creates binomials so indissoluble to question the concept of objectivity and pragmatic rationality.

Each individual will selfishly place oneself at the center of his own stylistic universe, surrounding himself with a seemingly eclectic and transversal set of vices and accessories that identify him and expose him in a more or less shameless way, as an instant translator of Esperanto.

Orequo might be just a tiny drop of the immense innovative wave that is going to overwhelm us, but it will be the one that will break the camel’s back.

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