Coldness no longer makes me quiver. I am no longer looking for warmth. It is
no longer a priority. Isn't it startling? I am twenty five but not as sensible
to coldness as when I was twenty! I used to detest cold weather. I used to bury
my body alive in cloth.
It keeps pushing me to think, that question of when exactly does one live? At what age? At which point in life does one travel and discover life? When does one free one's self of these heavy metal chains of society, family, friends and work?
That slow tide of work and home, home and work, work and home, home and work and old friends that suck life out of any human being until one wakes up abruptly with a fragile body and sixty years on one's back.
At that point mind keeps explaining its actions, providing evidence of
success; that vague word that blind those who see, like gold, for me,
invaluable.
When will you travel? When will you swim in different seas? When will you try new stuff? When will you breathe different airs? When will you experience life, real life?
Maybe my idea of life is not real life, but those who live out of the jungle
wonder how can monkeys manage to live all their life jumping from one tree to
another, looking for food and a good fuck.
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