Living Vibes

I'm obsessed for living, and have back all the years I've been stocked, forgetting those scraped walls and laugh about that, laugh laud, a real laugh, and not just to build another barrier against the sorrow for the bereavement. 

I want to laugh, laugh, laugh until my stomach will ache. 

I want to run after the sun with any means, the moon to soak me, to do races and get lost. 

I want to be me, in that very way that hurts people around me, which is just irredeemably mine.  Because I can feel it kicking from inside, like a baby in a hurry to born to see the world's light.

I want to be obsessed with a person, if that person is me. I want to be in love with skies, with colours, with smells, I want to lose control among everything to live until the end every moment. 

I want to give a name to everything, I want to baptize places and people in foreign invented languages, just caring about my freedom. 

I want to talk with gypsies about pre-life experiences, listen their hoarse voice explaining why we don't belong to this dimension and "No som res més que estufes en una cubell de basura".

I want to see the world yellow and orange.

I want to paint with my sight all my memories, warp the reality in a kaleidoscope of changing images and permanent emotions.

Keep all the good concealed in me and spread it with concentric waves around me, to embed external spirits, feed them and make them poise me back. 

I want not to want. 

Which doesn't mean not to be in love, but learn by myself how to do it.

I want to wake up in the morning in a new city, although I'm in the same place, and I want to do it not with psychotropic substances, but because I can escape from my own daily life. 

I don't want to be worried about where or when I have to sleep, if this means a blanket of stars and a mattress of sand, the waves swinging più forte - men forte as a lullaby.

I want to live the carillon of my life, hang out often, hang out no matter how, deal with every day I lived. 

I want to get drunk with smells and remember them when I'll be far and further, after decades. 

I want to be able to write and do it because I want to remember, not to depose all the darkness inside me. 

I want to live the nights, see sunrises, go running under the rain to protect in a shabby shelter a while to recover, and start running again. That people will look at me puzzled, and I won't really give a hoot about it. To be in peace with myself I don't need anyone to agree with me. No one.

I want the wind on my face, on my eyebrows, on my earlobes. I want to hear the rings in my ears. 

And scream off-key songs to the Universe, expecting any echo, or answer. Have pointless playlists. 

I want to be amazed. 

Be thrilled and paralysed. Have different stories to tell once back home, but tell these stories to myself, to believe everything is real. 

I want talk, talk, talk until I'll lose my voice. I want to talk and realize too late the daylights are raising, and I have a flight in few hours, and it won't wait for me. 

I want to listen and learn, laying on a concrete floor, still worm after a sunny day, or sitting on a wooden bench, cold and wet after the night’s hoarfrost, moist and sweating. 

I want to walk with no hurry amongst unknown languages that I will never differentiate one from another, striving not to be amazed by their genuineness. 

I want to stare at the time flowing and take delight from its silence. I want not to see the time passing by, and just know I don’t need it. 

I want to leave every fixed rule, never look at the previous step, just put them one behind the another and stumble, and never forget to laugh when I get up again. 

I want to draw and sprinkle colours everywhere, besmirch my hands and nose, and have a flower dress to disguise. 

I want not to have any doubt – anymore – so I don’t have to choose, do everything, without leaving out anything. 

I want to throw myself on the ground and roll down from the top of the hill as I used to do when I was five and there was no friction force that could stop me from rolling until the end of the world. 

I want the music, music in the streets, music in the bazars, music in the delis and village’s grocery shops, music of concerts improvised by tourists to buy the train ticket, music from kitchens’ windows overlooking the narrow streets, between vapours of mid-morning, but even from bistros, the music of that mandolin guy who wants to dedicate serenades to the passers. 

I want daylights, nightlights, starlight – stars -, the light of sunsets on the Ocean, the light of a pair of eyes, of spastic shades on water, of my dreams a little further than my house front door, no matter where my home is. 

I want to be inebriated, and have a backpack with a pen, some sheet of papers and a couple of books not to forget to look outside, of course, but what’s inside as well and pour it on a notebook before it gets lost, or it’ll come back in a dream when it’ll be already too late. 

I want to discover inexistent colours, that hurt the sight because the mind cannot conceive and elaborate them. That all of this can get into me, pierce the depth of my essence; I want to make it mine in some way, and convert it into creative energy, that will overhang my hears. 

I want to go, not being able to stop. 

I want to live it until the end. 

I want to live. 

I want to stare at myself in the mirror – everyday – thinking that’s the person I envy.