​ 20/20

“Hindsight is 20/20,” they say. Wise. It’s easy to look back and connect the dots; making sense of everything once you know the outcome. Sitting on my multicolor sofa, sipping lukewarm coffee and looking out the window, while “Fever to the form” plays on my Spotify; now I try this hindsight thing and don’t seem to find the crystal clear vision they so much advertise.
About one month after my termination notice, and officially released from work for a week now, the end of this Scandinavian adventure started solidifying in my head. Been sleeping like shit, but without anything really in particular disturbing me. There’s an unease within, but I still can’t put a finger on what it is, not exactly. Yet, I can’t quite discard certain variables from the equation.
No matter how you look at it, I’ve been lucky so far. It’s hard for me to remember where I started, as if the poor, bullied skinny kid from Lo Prado was some past life of a stranger I once met, rather than my own story. After all the travels, all the lovers and all the experiences of the last 8 years, that fucked up upbringing and scars appear fake. But then I recall I’m two months away from being deported and the wounds begin to open again. Which would explain why I have been having nightmares of being back in that tiny apartment in Santiago, living with my parents again. Terrible dreams, I tell you.
And now that I’m talking about dreams, I had one last night that got me all confused. I was at my parents flat -hating it, as I do in every nightmare on the same situation-; but, this time, there was a guest star: my ex, C. She didn’t look like her in real life, as it often happens in dreams, but I knew it was her. And she was mean to me. I constantly tried to kiss her, hug her, cuddle with her, but she turned me away on each and every single attempt. The more she rejected me, the more I chased after her around the house, no matter how pathetic and needy it was. And, although it was yet another of these recurrent “back to the roots” nightmares, it didn’t feel bad. Or not too bad. Then, I woke up in her side of the bed. Looked at the ceiling, as my eyes got used to the darkness in my room. “That was weird,” I thought, “But… somewhat nice.” Perhaps my lack of sex and affection manifesting in my sleep? Maybe.
I don’t know if there’s any takeaway from that particular dream, or from any of the nightmares I’ve been having lately. What would Freud say? “You wanna fuck your mother,” probably. Or simply what’s obvious: although I felt all hippie and chill with the whole ending my Danish life, maybe I am not ready nor willing to call it quits. Specially not if that implies going back home to suck my parents’ tit.
Nah. I’m not done biking. I ain’t over having diverse, international friends and lovers. I’m yet to get tired of Tuborgs and shawarmas. I don’t want my journey to be over. Nor does The Writer, nor The Artist.
What do you say, guys? Should we give it another shot? Should we fight the good fight?

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *