Maia Nebula!

It’s my birthday today. I feel like dancing, like singing really loud. I feel like taking a thousand pictures, like slamming my guitar and remembering all the songs I used to play after school in my grandma’s house.

It feels so good to wake up at the sound of my parents walking into my room… it’s home. Home sweet home, home cold home, my sister listening to electronic music, cheese and fruits in the refrigerator, space to walk around.

Home. Not the streets and the strangers, but the cozy little house in the outskirts of a small South American capital city.

It’s my birthday today, and I feel like not leaving this space, like letting the music invade it until the sun flies over to the other side of the planet, or until jetlag knocks me out.

Innumerable, spotless windows
give way to red wine sofas,
shelves of curious Siddharthas
and indomitable Quixotes.

The warm dimness of the passageways
is a series of wooden mines
where the light within mossy pages
awaits to be unleashed.

Kamala sits expectantly,
her womb aching for streams of honeycomb,
and dreams of technicolor exuberance
wantonly desire the burnt grass plains of Spain.

At the far end of the musty hall
a lonely bewitched pair of eyes
flutters away from a million worlds and suns
back into the dull sound of rain.

Two days to wake up from a nightmare called Odradek.

Five days to gasp in awe in the middle of a psychedelic Monet dreamworld.

Fifteen days to step into my very own reverie, if only for the blink of one summer.

“No one, of course, would occupy himself with such studies if there were not a creature called Odradek.”
—Franz Kafka, The Cares of a Family Man

All my worries, my fear and my rage, are contained in the hermetism of seven letters. What are you, Odradek?