Dare to be one of us, girl / facing the android’s conundrum / you don’t know how long I’ve been / watching the lantern dim / starved of oxygen / So give me your hand / And let’s jump out the window…
I am being led by the hand, five lovely people have taken me under their wing and I have to say, it’s a nice place to be. I stand by Marc’s balcony which looks over the tiniest street in all of Barcelona. I walk home past the Santa Maria del Mar, the most beautiful church I have ever seen, and in seconds I am in my bed or maybe it’s the bed of someone else, no one in this house is too fussed about where they end up. We sit and hang out in eachother’s rooms or in the living room or in the kitchen, or wherever but we’re always together and we get excited when someone comes back, after going away for the weekend.
My roof curves over, higher than high, in what can only be described as a palace. My housemates, my new family have made it their mission to show me I can live my life how I always wanted to. One comes home to find a salon filled with the other family members, laughing and drinking and lazing and joke telling or tv critiquing. We jump around in the kitchen and say ‘family reunion’ just after coming home from a normal day. We cut cucumbers and tomatoes and laugh about putting lemon juice in the salad dressing. We drink coffee or copious amounts of tea and there’s a tea store across from our house, a Caixa Catalunya bank on the corner, a bakery on the other side, a Lomography shop for the camera aficionados (almost all of us).
We are all creative artists in our own way. We created this dream.
We listen to the same music, dance to music only we can hear, sing the same tune, go crazy in the streets, one for all, all for one – so we all go out together and have such a good time, maybe too good a time, that we barely remember how we got home, but there’s always someone who went home a little bit earlier so they could make toasted sandwiches for those drunkies on their way in.
I feel the stone cold wall beside me, my hand brushes it delicately and I know this is my home. The labyrinth streets, the dark but alluminating old quarter, the trendy cafes and bars, the hip crowd. This is the Barcelona I have wished for for eleven months but never truly believed would material before my eyes, let alone exist. I don’t know how it’s possible to be unhappy in this place. I think I may have died and gone to heaven. One of the family members kissed me on the forehead goodnight and smiled, saying something inaudible in Spanish. For the first time in years, and I mean years, I am myself, or how I have always wanted to be.
Young, beautiful, free spirited. Loved.
There is no place in my life for cowards, disrespectful cowards, who hurt mercilessly, act out their part like a scene from a dramatic play, promise all the world and not only never deliver but take everything you thought was true away and make you grovel for it back, while watching on with indifference. You had pain in every blood vessel, every inch of skin, every part of your mind, your soul and you felt so damaged that you might never recover. Then one day you do. and it’s nothing short of marvellous.
Am I gloating? Hell yeah, I’m gloating. I get a fucking novel out of my broken heart, a line of men from here until Morrocco and a family in a beautiful house. He gets to be a 31 year old unemployed failure, living with fools and some ugly, fake blonde, Italian whore. Which is exactly where he was when he met me.
As for me, well, simply put, I am on my way to the sky with a one way ticket and some wings (made with love). Good, dios, it feels good.