Year 2020. The middle of winter. I’m still recovering from New Year’s Eve. The third day is always worst. I promised myself this would be the last time. Surviving the weekend extremes at the expense of apathy during the week. Happiness is only where I run. I’m starting to get stressed. Why the hell I bought this ticket, why did I agree to go to Morocco? It’s the last thing I’m ok with. I can’t think, work. I can barely stumble from home to store. How can I leave this messed up “everything” and fly to Africa?
Sun. My pupils are filled with medicine. Fruits, flavors, colors, everything is pulsating. A hostel full of young people, artists. Music all around, the murmur of drawing, mixing colours. Conversations about energy, hashish, sincere confessions and disarming openness. I shed my shell, I allow my inner voice. I feel sad when I think about myself in Warsaw, after all, I live here and now. A liberating perspective. It’s all so simple, I need so little. Why is it so easy to forget?
I am fascinated. Cities, ocean, mountains, deserts, oases. I am careful, I document superficially. During these ten days, you can only taste the icing, the outer decoration. I promise myself that I will come back here next year, for longer. I want more.
I lost my naive optimism somewhere between the arrivals hall and my flat, but I still come back changed, something is balanced inside.