Lovers with flowers, 1927
And then, one day, I fell in love again.
The story I am about to share with you is a story of truth and struggle, written in fate by two wounded souls that once found themselves searching for peace and hope. I feared the novelty, and I know he feared it too. We had both experienced lives of grief so far.
I had given up on attempting to create new possibilities of commitment, shut myself inside a protective shell, allowing nobody to come near. Safety, quiet, maybe also loneliness, but a safe feeling of being on my own. No more yelling, cursing, forced sex, endless arguments and miserable condescendence. Just peace, my books, my writings, my screens of meaningless images. I became still, a body without pain, a mind freed and starting to relax.
Of course there were nightmares. The past would haunt my nights whilst my days went on and on, amongst unexpected tears and random smiles. And work, of course. But I was on my own, knowing that the worst had ended, and life would eventually restart.
One day, it did.
One would think it would be too late – or at least, later than expected. And it was so different this time. His eyes caught me so strongly, bright as they were, full of life and promises. Irresistible and kind. Persuasive and caring. Honest and wholesome.
This is the start of a tale of adjustment. Who I will become remains unknown. Readers will be briefed about episodes of joy and happiness – such as I never thought I would star in someday. Episodes that will remain as extraordinary memories whenever doubt cruelly installs within disbalanced ado.
Also, episodes that will forever enlighten the years to come. Like the one when we bathed together whilst Moustaki was on, the weight of loving French music in a pair of caring foamed hands and warm soothing water, in a charming hotel room somewhere in the south of Spain. A loving hug, it was.
Anyway, more to come, tales of hope and love – for the sake of us all.
Thank you for reading.
