#movingfromthepast

I was in the process of moving three parts of my body while identifying three different sounds on the street when the idea occurred to me that it wasn't impossible that I might be on the verge of the madeleine trap. No panic, I won't delve into the search for lost time. But. The fact remains that I'm still nostalgic for the benefits of the 2015 Spiritual Quest. For the freedom I felt while drawing. For the ecstasy that sent me into the cosmos when I was writing in 2018, 2019, transcending time and space.

So, I thought I should stop that. I much prefer not to be pursued by anything, like at the campsite, for example. At the campsite, all you have to worry about is when you're going to take a dump and what you're going to eat. Everyone likes that, I think. Even the prudes. And if everyone likes that, it's because we're no longer pursued by constructions and imperatives at the campsite. Everyone is the same creature when it comes to taking a shower next to big Bob, who's putting his catch in the next cabin. Everyone leaves each other alone when we walk around in our underwear, towel over the shoulder, slightly buzzed from the beer from 1 PM. And then, it's in underwear, a little tipsy, lying under the white page that came to shade the everyday, that we can most distinctly glimpse what we desire. Rosé. Terrace. Pizza. Cumbia.

Striving to be an author, to be an artist, to be Keanu Reeves, is a lost cause. Feeling like an author when you dream up a new character, glass in hand; believing you're an artist when you scribble a feeling on a piece of paper; feeling like God when you're right where you're supposed to be—those are the things to cherish. Did I just say that Keanu Reeves = God? Yes, absolutely.

So, not doing it, but being it. Damn, but I'm not saying anything new... What the hell was this damn quest of mine for? Every time I wrote a new story, it was somewhere a story I was living (on another plane, mind you, I don't think I'm an elf or a soldier). Well, you don't know everything. I never looked for the "next story to write," as if it were my job. If I were even paid to do it... You might be asking if I'm not writing the story I'm living right now. Damn it.

I already know everything, I'm a bit like Keanu somewhere. I've read Thich Nhat Hahn, eh! I just need a few characters ready to step out of reality to expose things not to forget on an easier-to-contemplate plane. Gluing their pieces together to make myself a costume. Fiction is a refuge of predictability, determination, and welcome emotions. But seeking these pieces in reality is futile. Of course. Letting them come, on the other hand, catching glimpses of them, collecting them as they appear... Rosé... Pizza...