A few days after the festival, the time spent there already feels like something distant. Impressions and images grow dim, the familiar routine settles back into its ordinary rhythm. Only a few things remain as reminders of the past event. I still find myself returning to photographs, to booklets filled with the work of craftsmen, and certain especially vivid moments surface in memory. Yet the strongest impression - the one that gives me no rest - is tied not to any visual image, but to a single tactile experience: the most ordinary of handshakes.
Her small, delicate hand was far too cold, and yet she gave no sign at all that she was cold. The same way a person can appear happy without truly being so.
When did you last try to understand whether someone was happy? How do you help another feel joy in the passing of an ordinary day, or the quiet pleasure of waking in the morning?
Looking back at past events that weave together into the strange and intricate pattern of reality, it seems to me that this moment became an important node in my life.
Let this knot remain here. Time will reveal what paths it opens.