I freaking love Madrid. I started off today so out of it and having anxiety about being tired and freaking out on the subway because I was alone and what if something happened to me because I didn't have my passport or Senora's phone number, etc. I was even contemplating just turning around and taking the subway home. Then I got here, went to Corte Ingles for a fan and art supplies... I'm going to be in these people's picture right now, I wonder if they're American? No. British. Anyhoo, now I can't believe how good I feel. It's the perfect time of day- still so hot but with a breeze, it's gorgeous. I got so absorbed in Corte Ingles buying art supplies, I just told myself I'd completely take my time since I didn't have anything else to do- so I ended up spending a lot of money but got pastels, paper, pens, marker, and a planner. The saleswoman had been following me around and we managed to communicate in Spanish and when I came out I heard two people speaking French and it hit me that I speak three languages. I'm certainly nowhere near fluent in Spanish yet, but I'm immersed in it, and I understand it.
I just can't believe it's all happening so fast. Or how overwhelming this all is. Like how I just wanted to come across a little park where I could sit and write and I came across this amazing place and it almost doesn't seem fair- it seems like it's too easy. It's almost like I'm turning into this thing that Bonne and I seem to be able to create but I've never done on my own. And it seems as if maybe it's some kind of reward for just forgetting about my inhibitions and just throwing things out to the Universe. Travel writer. Venezuelan waiter. Senora. Forgetting to eat. It's half making it happen and wanting to make it happen. "I don't know"- that's always my phrase. But it's like Bonne says; I do know, I'm just afraid of it. I'm afraid of how good things could be. I'm afraid of not suffering.
That's why this feeling, right now, is so strange to me- being perfectly content. Writing. Being in the sun. Not even being self-conscious about my body because I like my outfit right now and I know I look good and I can even lose weight because I'm in Europe and I can walk everywhere, join a gym, run when it gets less hot, eat less and less often. I've been letting myself actually enjoy meals- churchbells!- since they've been so few and far between.
God- the Europeans have it right. Except it's really weird to be so content because it's just like- where does one go from here?
Maybe I haven't done everything I want to do in life yet- I haven't travelled the world, I haven't written a bestseller... but even if I had done those things, would it change the way I felt right here right now, sitting next to the fountain, listening to the rushing water in the sun? My cup brimmeth over. I couldn't possibly be more content right now because there is nothing that could change how I feel in this very present moment.
So why should I be so afraid to die? If I kept living forever things would go up and down and I would keep having moments like this but they really couldn't be any "better" because I'm at a point of contentment where I don't really feel anything. I just am.
And I have to die sometime. What does it matter whether its now or 60 years from now? 60 years is a lot but you could live 60 more, then 60 more, and all you'd be doing is having experiences, and this is all very ironic since I hear something that sounds like gunshots. Existential moment ruined by the potential terrorist attack.
This conversation is getting morbid, and I just jumped about a foot when a guy walking by hiccuped. Plus, tengo hambre. I think I'll bouge to a cafe.
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