It’s 5am and I am disguised in-between blankets of night-time. The memories come to me like the warmth of a fireplace. I sit down somewhere in my soul and enjoy the comfort of my past life.
I remember I used to speak to the ocean. I'd swim and swim while connecting to the currents; to the waves that passed above my head and the fish that swam around my feet. I would take some air and think deeply about what worried me. I would tell the waves stories about loneliness and family disputes. About neglect and a lack of self-esteem that made me believe my body was worth erasing. And the ocean would reply by washing away all that troubled me, the waves and I becoming one with the sea.
It is the same feeling I had laying in a park with him in Madrid while watching the trees and their leaves move left to right. The grass underneath us caressed our bodies in a way that would make us forget we were there. We had turned into the Earth and the Earth had caved into our bodies, listening to us speak about our dreams; about our time apart and how we weren’t meant to be.
Imagine if, every time I blew the birthday candles, there was a power cut. A soothing darkness that would welcome dreams and new beginnings. A night that, like this one, leaves room to welcome the light that will be brought tomorrow. A moon that hugs this emptiness and whispers: This bigger space can only become a room to grow.
I want to be stargazing in the desert. To feel the sand and the warmth of the universe. To see the clock stop as I look at the sky and wish for the moment to never end. Sometimes I wonder if my lifestyle was meant to be; if my soul feels comfortable in the confinements and uproar of the cities. If it is perhaps not longing for the sweet hug of nature.
But I felt a similar feeling the first time I observed London’s skyscrapers. A city that engulfed me in a sea of people and, like the body of water did years ago, reminded me that life goes forward. The lights and music on its streets remind me of the energy that is radiated by humanity. I read many stories on the faces of people walking its streets: of the man who gave me small pieces of his poetry and the woman drawing sketches at the Tate Museum, of the guy that played the guitar and whose melody splashed different colours on the chambers of my brain. I guess my soul sometimes belongs to this city.
Other times it travels to the Mediterranean sea.
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