I
drifted away. I got distracted by days passing by, lost in things to do and be
taken care of. And I forgot I used to write. That I love to write.
Things changed, not as much as they could but probably as much as they
should, at least for now. Planes brought me to cities that asked me
questions I cannot answer, which still tickle my soul and make me want to go
back.
I am on the brink of a big amount of time off, something almost unknown
to me which fills me with excitement and butterflies in my stomach.
Looking back at the time since I last let my words drop on a screen, I
feel like I became more and more grown-up and more and more convinced of the
need to gain some recklessness.
Sunny Mediterranean
streets seduced me with the allure of an enthralling alternative, and made me dizzy
with exhilaration. But every time I opposed control and kept it all together
with my usual analysis, dissections of thoughts and endless waterfall of
questions.
During
this positive yet at trait strenuous time, my mind went back more than once to
an odd memory: the time I smoked my first joint, at an embarrassing advanced
age. When, in the company of a questionable man, I naively took two or three deep
drags, surprised that nothing happened. Until it did. And while roaming the
streets of the little Dutch city with the questionable and stoned man, with my
brain melting like ice-cream in the sun, I remember that I kept saying to
myself “if you concentrate, if you focus, you can keep it under control, you
can!!”. But you can´t.
And sometimes, you just should not.
