Dreams of Catalonia
A mind brimming with stories and a chest full of songs. I was a child that saw the world through the lens of my dreams. Reality wasn’t my primary concern.
I was brought up in a house with many people to obey and even more rules to follow. I never broke them. This house taught me what happiness is. Or at least their version of it.
I left my hometown behind to look for myself. I haven’t found myself. If anything, I’ve become more confused about who I am. But I have come to know what I am not.
I’ve read books I don’t remember, yet they’ve cleansed me from within. I’ve written what I can’t say aloud and I’ve sought solace in dreaming of what I don’t dare do in reality. At times, it feels like all I do is dream and with these dreams, I knit myself a coat that protects me from the coldness of reality.
I’ve moved through cities and traveled across countries attempting to bring to life the stories I constantly console myself with.
Under the Catalan night, we ate tiramisu at Plaça Reial and then walked together through the dark narrow streets of the Gothic quarter. Groups of American tourists being the only noise and a musician singing Creep by Radiohead. We stopped at the small Sant Felip Neri Square where you causally told the group about the history of the square but all I wanted to know were the stories behind your honey-colored eyes.
I had the freedom to speak the truth, but I held myself back. I had the freedom to hold your hand, but only in my dreams. Nothing is more unbearable, once one has it, than freedom*.
As the plane takes off from El Prat, on a chilly February night, I have tears in my eyes, for leaving behind a city that bathed my heart with its light and showed it uncompromised happiness.
It’s all over my love. I’ve knit myself another sweater with the thread of my dreams and I’ll wear it in your absence.
Thank you for reading.
*Govanni’s Room — James Baldwin
