the South or the land of castaways
A crowded place built in a desert filled with cactuses from all breeds.
A symbol of the world I escaped from or of the world that spilled me out. One I cannot return to. One that is not a way, anymore. A former love story, the kind you don’t want to remember.
Lost in new ways. Still, not in all ways. People who go South and me, today more than yesterday.
They smile by default for reasons I do not see and understand. They love to get high and drunk from dusk to dawn. People who invest everything they have in damaging their brains.
Why are these people here? How did they choose this place and not another?
Many are castaways or chronically ill and crippled, people who came here to help their body turn into a milder recipient. Many are also retired, people who live well here from the money coming in from their home countries. I have not seen in a long-time people reaching so old ages. They look immortal and suspiciously happy.
I understand hard or not at all their kind of happiness. It is too shining. It blinds me. It even hurts me at times.
They seem like coming from better worlds. Less frustrated, less hurt. They are happier, but they are not free as they think they are. That much I can tell.
Freedom and happiness are two different stories.
The attachment of the ideas of good and more has roots too deep to set ourselves free so easily.
This South is not about freedom, it is about the culture of weakness.
(the photo is from the North, it is relevant for the missing part of the story)
(excerpt from Camino del Sol)