It was a not a big departure. I didn’t go to the other end of the world. To the other end of my country at the most. Yet, I have used every possible mean of transport during this travel. The one that didn’t look like any other I have experienced. The one that contained every one of them I have been through.
It was not a big departure. But it might have been the most beautiful of all? Full of all my previous journey’s melancholy, full of all my unknown promises.
I was not a big departure; yet, it has played for the one I had decided not to take. Maybe I knew spring would be a turning point. I was supposed to go halfway around the world, I went halfway around my country instead. As has said my dear friend Theo: “I don’t know who’s in charge of your life’s dramaturgy, but he or she has done a fucking good job at it!”.
I was not a big departure; it was a rendezvous, with myself, with layers of my own history. I was not a big departure; I was back to basics, to every basic.
I came back to the starting point, from where I have left since I was 7. The one which only needs a few words, a gather of inspired souls, some lights and an audience to travel inside with those who dream. I came back to the starting point, theater, the one which first threw me on the roads, before roads became home for a while, before the unexplored became familiar for a year. I came back to the starting point, theater, in order to create a new project of joy.
I came back to the starting point, from where my parents and grandparents left once. I came back to the starting point, exile, the one I did every holiday until I turned 13. I came back to the starting point, exile, as I stepped, for almost the first time since I was 13, on my ancestors’ land.
I came back to the starting point, from where I moved forward, at 20, after my theater school. I came back to the starting point, coming-of-age, as I came back to the place I was painfully trained.
I already knew the theme, I was about to embellish the idea of departure. As I had decided not to part. As my loved one had chosen to part. I knew what it was to be even before leaving, it couldn’t be more relevant. Even beyond what I had thought. There were so many layers to enlighten!
It was a lot to cope with in 7 weeks… Hindsight, it might have been a bigger departure than I had planed!
And between DAY 1 and DAY 45, I have been through 70 560 minutes of intense work, only matched by the intensity of my joy.
I have experienced improvisations multiplied into stories, characters, poetry and a show in the end.
I have been moved by as many states of doubt as states of grace, by as many theatrical encounters as human encounters.
I have heard the sound of battle turned into the sound of joy: YAAAAA, I’ll make it one day!
I have played theater games turned into tennis games: Roland Garros was in Angers this year!
I have felt a profound feeling of healing, a healing feeling of gratitude, a sound sensation of peace, a peaceful sensation of faith.
I have flirted with fake grief to enhance my creativity: “The piano grief, Justine!”
I have coped with real grief to embody my last transformations: Rest in peace my dear beloved cat.
I have lived magnificent moments of sharing, I have shared magical moments of beauty: 4EVER in my HEART my dear TH1!
Then, I had to leave again. After all, we all knew how it was supposed to end. A bit like it all started. In a departure hall. In a train station. We all knew it would end with a new beginning. With a new departure. And what a departure! Who could dream a student choir would stalk me to the station to sing « Puisque tu pars », stars and tears in their eyes to match stars and tears in mine! In order to hail our 70 560 minutes spent together, changing, creating, moving…
After those incredible farewells, I was alone on the train. I watched landscapes running in my window as I was reaching my “South”, me the Southern girl I didn’t know to be so drastically. I watched landscapes running in my window to gaze at the 70 560 minutes which just had me rebuilt. I didn’t even glance at my airport novel bought at the train station; my life adventure, my last weeks’ novel, was more worthy of my heart and mind.
I thought I would be busy writing my memories, but I kept them inside instead. It’s only a few days later that I can open up again. Messy. Because I don’t know how to put 70 560 minutes of pure joy in less than 70 560 signes. There are moments in life which can only be lived, words are too weak to reflect. But I need – I want – to keep a print, even unperfect, in all my writings. Because if parting moments love to be written to be healed. Magical moments must be turned into poems to be celebrated.
At least in my life!
And this pure magical moment overthrows any other one, I then keep drinking to the words of its memories.
Justine T. Annezo – June, 14th 2026 – GTM+2
Living memories….
Fleeting Wor(l)ds 