My universe is enough for me, it seems, although it is an illusion. If I manage to be alone most of the time, between the few cubic meters of a Montreal apartment, I am nevertheless attached to everyone, to the chosen melodies sliding through the Internet to my ears, to my friends, to my family as well as to the many office colleagues with whom I earn a salary and build programmed castles.
But in the end, I’m content with my world. Only me can breathe it, can interpret it. Droplets form under the lid of a slow cooker, a starry universe takes shape on an immersed roasting pan, but I can’t help but see stars, invisible bee cells.
I am satisfied with my madness, and I worry about it. It pushes me to a silent romanticism, to breathe the presence of others as if all this were honey of a single season. This same and imperturbable madness encourages me to believe that I could live within Spanish, Andalusian walls.
For a long time, I wanted to be famous. Now I glorify a quagmire of stories, wrapping myself in sweet thoughts, sleeping more and more, softened by dreams, fantasies, perhaps after all, by the naivety of wanting to be happy at all costs.