All these things that I've done

It started up with the usual cramps that wake me up from my usual light sleep - as light as the heaviness of the edible midnight anxiety that caused it, as light as the heaviness of the endless remorse that had been occupying my belly and my chest and my throat for up to n years today, as light as the heaviness of the vomit that is just about to come up; as light as your numbers; as light as my dream when I share it with you; I'm weightless. With the usual sweat around my neck; with the usual thirst and the usual sticky breath of hangover - 'I feel hangover', you said; but it wasn't pizza and either was you. With the usual lack of sleep and the unusual lack of care. With discomfort.

I rushed to the loo and took a crap. The day doesn't start quite well until it comes out of my body. ('Even Stella McCartney has to go to the toilet', you said. Somehow those words seemed to me a sign of hope). Yesterday it didn't start up that way, and it only got better until it did. And then I stuffed myself once again. Life is a cycle, and shit is only another earthly proof of that.

Then I reckoned it was time to get the crap out of my room. We inhabit places. I didn't want to dwell on dust, leftovers, rubbish and chaos no more. My tummy still hurt. I vacuum-cleaned the week of disorder and wiped off the days of conception out of me, and as I did, I cried my heart out.

I had my teeth bared for battle, 'till love lost made me dull

But life is not a battle! So stop fighting, get rid of the armour, burn down the shield. Undress. Expose your body and feel - feel the air caress it with its gentle breath, feel the water slowly getting it wet with its warm fingers, feel, just feel.

'You demand yourself too much.' And so do I. Always running upstairs, always fighting, always with my eyes wide open. So take the lift, make love, close your eyes and stay the night. Let yourself be loved and protected. Feel the warmth of the night against your skin. It might not last forever, the thrill might be gone by the time you're up, attention and care might come with an expiry date; but all organic things are.

Love. Love, love, love, love him, or love someone, sometwo, somemany else. Drink a glass of vermouth every night. Eat. Eat a whole pizza on a Valentine's evening, eat the entire city of Paris. Survive. Don't let life pass you by while trying to live, while fighting to survive.

Life is what happened last Friday evening. Drop your books and your computer, put deep dark red lipstick on, sweeten your ear with the voice of his faded salty lips, and seduce with verb and glances. People don't know what to do with themselves. But we do.

And there is where you find your peace. May you find your peace and balance, and breathe back to life.

And then, and only then, the thrill might come back - or it might not, but at least, it made you feel.

Pensar que uno pierde la vida cuando no está luchando es una extraña mentalidad de soldado en medio de la guerra.

It was one of those times the right words came in the right moment. '¡Es una señal!', we would've said. (A sign... I sigh. Signs in the air, signs in the water, even signs in oil, and matches made in heaven). Never had those lyrics made so much sense before...

Next Monday it'll all be different. The Monday after I'll feel ready to print those other lyrics out, and thus to feel better. (What's the connection between life and lyrics? More than it'd ever seemed to me, at least). But tonight, I'll swipe right and pack. Paris is waiting.