November 2016 | British Days
To kiss a stranger is in any way stranger than sleeping with the same person for handfuls of years. Excellent compromise between real life – made of misfortunes and horoscopes that still attempt to convince you you’ll bump into the right person, you just have to turn the corner – and the bubble I made my home – forget space and schemes, pressures and prejudices, judgments and postjudices. I know this word is inexistent, but I enjoy taking liberties I don’t own.
I also noticed how little the shade of your skin, your haircut and the definition of your muscles matter. How little relevance the combination of clothes you pick in the morning, the way you paint your nails and how you portray your past have. How blurry these differences are if – when music is playing – you don’t have the guts to join the fray, you don’t go with what your mind whispers you to sleep, with what you say when you can’t grab the brakes of your tongue when blood blends with alcohol, when you feel your friends’ and parents’ vigilant eyes are closed; free from norms and just follow what your body asks.
So dance to the whistling of your own head, shut your eyes and dare. Because once you feel, once you see what it’s like to be, I swear, going back is for the blind.
Sorry I now have a backpack to jump on to close the zipper; six days of random pictures, fruit in drinks and warmth are ahead before heading back to reality and I haven’t finished packing yet. Fingers crossed I’ll make it before 2am.
Hasta pronto and all those other Spanish stereotypes.