Poesia sin fin
Some days feel extra exhausting. Not because of the crazy amounts of work, the aggressive traffic, the endlessly pouring rain. More because the mask you’re wearing is becoming heavier every day. The suit that covers your body, adjusted to the job and city you find yourself in. Your actions, well thought of, not too silly, just enough. The words you spread, carefully. Your behaviour, what you can and cannot do. In short, keeping things under control and your shit together.
It’s fucking exhausting to hide what you actually are and want to be. Under layers of conditioning, of what is okay, normal, socially acceptable. "Keep your volume down, why are you laughing so loud? Relax, take a chill pill." Can’t you see there is more where all of that is coming from? I’m releasing myself in tiny doses, so the city doesn’t think I’m a freak and kick me out or something.
Why am I so attracted to the insane, mindblowing, obsessive, otherwordly? Why does it feel so comfy living on my own planet? Why is this even a question? Ah, because I have to come down (from the planet and happy highs) every day as soon as I wake up. There is no space for all that in this life I currently find myself in.
Have I danced at too many festivals covered in nothing but sparkles to adjust to this grey coloured city life? Or is it just the January blues taking over me? Days seem to weigh extra much, just like my eye lids when my alarm goes off. When did tomorrow start looking exactly the same as yesterday?
Where’s the magic in that?
I’m glad to be living with a wonderful artist who can make me feel light as air when my feet are getting too stuck to the ground. She poured me a glass of wine and put on this movie called ‘Poesia sin fin’. Where freaks unite! The world all of a sudden seemed filled with circus artists, poets, dancers, writers, painters. And the ‘normal’ masks were thrown out with the trash.
Since then, I’ve been walking on clouds, writing silly poems, singing in the streets, pole dancing til I can no longer count my bruises, dating a pirate, creating art. Maybe my mask is slowly crumbling. Maybe I just tasted a hint of summer.