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 do you 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 pencils, mixing colors. 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.