…and let the pleasure we invent together/ be one more sign of freedom.

While I was gone, the rain cleaned my city.

The city of angels sometimes needs some cleansing. My city, a place where a couple of tourist guides, zip cars, celebrity home tours and tap cards won’t quench one’s thirst for grandeur, didn’t miss me… still I could hear the rain pouring down my streets from the golden gate bridge.

I can’t stop myself from thinking that while I was gone the city didn’t feel I had been gone at all, partially because I’m never truly gone but mostly because my presence is nothing but a type of sub-existence.

Living as any one might live, not doing more than one could and not doing less than one should. That’s the type of sub-existence I speak of. Always afraid of proving myself so I will never prove myself wrong and then, when I surely do prove myself wrong, the city understands and those gates of tinsel are open again, whispering ‘this is home’. This is home.

The roughness never frightened me, the stories never deceived me but I, I have disappointed myself. I hurt myself greatly but that surely doesn’t change much of anything. Life is a drag but it can also be the stuff of wander… and wandering is something I could never leave behind for it is part of the type of person I am. So,

I pack up my bag, fix up my mascara, put on my high-heeled boots and walk determinately to that flying machine that will take me home. A home where not money but aspiration is the currency that speaks the loudest.

Where dreams are usually put down to sleep before they get a chance to check the sunset in Malibu.

 

*quote from “A Love Letter” by Julio Cortázar.

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