Something in Buenos Aires

And this is what it must feel like to create something. Something artistic, something real, something that breathes, that will be understood by others. Interpreted and criticized. Revered, respected, misunderstood or feared. Something that changes as it gets older. Changes as the world changes around it. Something that was intentional but not planned. Unpredictable but inevitable. Something beautiful in it’s flaws and flawed by it’s beauty. Contradictions and nonsense. Lost in the corner of the room, in the bookshelf, or on the wall, lost amongst the screaming of life in the city. Ignored, traumatized, dusty. Yearning for fresh eyes, fresh ears, fresh touch, taste and smell. Appreciation of nothing where nothing is ever appreciated. Where nothing is never appreciated. Close your eyes and listen. Cover your ears and look. Pick up the world that exists at your feet. Surrounded by this. Consumed you get dragged along. People just like us. Just like us. I’m like us and I like this. I saw options. Paths, and journeys. Like a roadmap. Freedom, needing fuel and a decision. I was at the beginning of the end scratching my head. Looking for a direction I now find myself in the middle of the ocean. No path. No road. No control. Only those which I impose on myself. I am the key, and the door wasn’t even locked. I decide against paragraphs. No time to pause, thinking won’t help me. I’m too indoctrinated. To damaged and traumatized. Like so many others. Wage slave. Consumer. Safety in safety. Reassurance in the ordinary. Jealousy of the extraordinary. What I’ve done not good enough. Too much fear to do anything about it. I speak for myself, but I see my reflection everywhere. So in the heat of this city, I drink her water, and eat her food. Sleep under her sky. I see her people, and live my life in this context. Something will be born of this. A manifestation, we come together, and we create. I couldn’t do it without her, but she will continue to do it without me.