Places from years, many years ago that became other places,
and other places. The stories are still there, like an afterlife chronicle. Scents,
sweat, laughter, noise, music, Pablo Neruda's poetry. Not knowing what would
come next is magical, sublime even.
The non so magnificent scenarios came later, with
regretful scenes, mistakes that can't be undone. That is what makes me sit and write,
and miss old times, while boiling rice. All too real. I close my eyes tight to
the sound of boiling water and feel that place again.
A bus ride? It was a bus ride to promote a drink. They
picked up young people from the streets and... we entered the dark bus with
disco lights, loud music... Round and round Ipanema. Who was I with? What drink
were they promoting? What made me go on that bus? When was that?
I have memories of bus rides, soap bubble parties, diving in
a swimming pool with my witch costume. A floating witch hat in the middle of
the night. Unreal but real, which makes my world mundane now. Is it a
requirement to be young again to lose oneself in Van Gogh's starry night, in an
enchanted world left behind? Where do I get a ticket to another round of
sparkly dancing yellow purple moments, where it is unsafe but safe? Gone but
still there.
