i read a story today. i could be thiago.
“thiago could always be persuaded into the most reckless of plans. he loved adventure and found the most joy in making ordinary moments extraordinary. he often went out for walks by himself, deliberately choosing a different route each time to find new things, watch events unfold on street corners and in small parks. and then he would make a list of how he remembered streets. calle 28, where the octopus plants grew wild, calle 17 where the rusted gate would swing shut on a path leading upwards towards an empty house, calle 15 where the park with pink benches began. he went away for some time, and lived in a big city by himself. there, he noted down street corners and marveled at fountains in parks and the old buildings with hanging fire escapes that people had built gardens on or created patios out of. he loved the fire escapes, he loved how they floated stationary in the air like tiny islands of black or brown or red. he loved the slant staircases that slid down beneath them. one evening, he met a beautiful boy on a friend’s fire escape. they smoked a joint together and giggled, high, heady, happy. they held hands and slowly kissed. the sun burned reddishpink behind them. the boy had a beautiful mouth, his lips parted slightly and pouted slightly. he smiled shyly and trustingly. thiago knew he was almost in danger of falling madly in love but he knew he had to leave. in fact, he was leaving the next day and this was his farewell party. when thiago returned, nothing was the same. the streets seemed different. the sunsets seemed desaturated. the mornings were less dreamy. the birds sang less sweetly. the smells were less sharp and the food less comforting. he couldn’t be excited anymore. he tried to walk in the rain. he went for walks late at night with only moonlight to guide him. he went to the bazaars and to the mosques and to the shrines. he spoke to people he had never spoken to before. he learned new stories of survival and of greed and of hatred. he saw anger all around him. he understood it, but he didn’t feel it. he felt nothing. he was dying, slowly. he cried all night, for the things that he had done, the things that he wanted to do, the things that he would never do.”
