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Some travels can be defined with sensations, others, with images, and others, that can be defined with words. So here I am, sitting in front of the Pacific Ocean (which is always exotic, although today is very salty ad the extension of sand that I have in front of me seems more some hard hit surfase instead of a beach). I am trying to find the exact words to describe all the others that have composed the travel. Or I should say that are comoposing, because is not ended, it has still some space for a couple of surrealists stories more. Like the story about the scorpion we found in the bungalow floor (and the bugalow was like a horror movie scenario, nothing to do with the hotel in Paris!). But it's OK, says the Catalonian owner of the place, these scorpions are not as bad as the ones in the Mediterranean sea. I've been bitten a coupe of times and it's only painful... Fortunately, his commercial instinct prevented him to say that words in front of four histerical tourists at three a.m.

The sea is covered with foam, and its noise seems particularly distressing this morning. It makes you think about perfect storms, fights impossible that are impossible to win, and beautiful drawned. It reminds me of love stories and adventure lived in lost galleons, and of the neverending wait without news. Or the wait for news that you wouldn't like to receive, but arrive anyway.

That is feeling judged by a standard to which one no longer wants to fit. When one renounces to respond to expectatives that aren't necessarily better or worse than others, but that are simply squeared, and doesn't fit for a life that wants to be rounded. When one stops feeling odd among the others and simply feels him/herself. At the end of the day, you are as afraid as you would be in any other option, I think, because all of them are scary: the fear to err is huge, is the fear of making the wrong decisions and realising the terrible mistake just five minutes before passing to a complete eternity of nothing.
But there are so many variables at stake. And being the human being as limited as it is, teh only thing that can be done is to continue chosing with our only tools: instinct, reason, of impulse. But, as the game is incredibly unfair, one has to assume consequences afterwards.

I know there's a house with nice sights waiting for me. A place from where I will look through the window, just to have time to mix memories and then order them and putting them in black and white , four years after the events happened, waiting for words to come, always sloer than actions. Meanwhile, is the same daily work.

After this weekend of words, some more clarifying than others, nothing has change. Although I see it differently.


P.S. Addicted readers:
Please look below this. I have altered the order of the stands, because the oter night I was so tired that I couldn't finish. And the next post, the tournment report!