Train tracks in the subway played with our dreams as worries haunted our world. Silence was our tyrant; the language of mirrors when they speak to our reflection. We looked through the train windows towards the lightless path, not making a sound, desperately seeking a code for abstract souls.
The train arrived and we got out to the cold of a lonely city, beautiful in all its lights, cruel for its indifference, benevolent for its freedom. Our faces pale by the passing wind, our noses bothered by the flu. Through small conversations we walked into a place of mystical features and as our steps submerged towards central park, the shortage of lamps turned our colors and shades into shadows within the night. We didn’t know why, but in that place our questions enlarged and our angst faded (not because it was gone, but because we could pause it). I couldn’t know what came through my friend’s minds, but I knew it was human. Our fraternity was based on a very essential connection transcending words, an understanding that our youth is celebrated upon suffering love and enjoying the masochism of mistakes. We understood the importance of that idea to never grow old.
A bridge awaited and we gathered over the small lagoon. We sat on the edge and let our feet hang, just to feel that subtle and likeable vertigo. An image worthy of paintings kneeled in the presence of our eyes and we had the power of molding it to our will. Silence imposed itself without a warning and buildings raised in hunger for the stars. Nothing but the sound of trees dancing with the wind and a burning cigarette were worthy of combinations with our thoughts.
Our comprehension of the site was not limited by the angles, perfect squares and straight delineations. We chose to look at the water and the place living in the flow of its currents. Ducks swam and playfully wet their wings, leaving by their trail distortions of the city’s reflection within the water. The yellow lights melted to figures in constant motion and buildings were not square anymore, but undefined shades. The silence spoke by itself; it was the scream of our existentiality, it was the sounds of our minds, the turmoil of our spirit. We sat there in our last night in NY because Venezuela was our reality, and we were still asleep. But in that place, within that water, there was a moral: Reality is our own.
The city easily imposed its meaning, but the reflections opened their arms to interpretation. It seemed so clear. Our nature responded to a code, it was the code we were seeking. It was so obvious when watching the ducks disturb the water through their natural mannerisms, and the water disturb the city’s reality. By following the savagery of our hearts we made reality our own, and that was the only one worth looking at. We could see anything we wanted within those images. We could paint it as whatever we felt.
It was an absurd code, but it explained our freedom, because only the fearless towards absurdity can be free. Be fearless towards absurdity, and you will face all your fears.
That bridge was a dream; we were going to wake up in Venezuela. But Venezuela is our own.