This month I'm turning one year older; a little less young, a little less idiot. So here I am, in front of my computer and I’m writing this to remember myself one day, when I was 26 and I use to live life; a bohemian life.
Congratulations to all of you that, like me, live this kind of life. The days of inspiration, taking chances, doing something out of nothing, the need for communication. To go against the stream, to go crazy, to explode for any apparent reason.
For love to tension, for living in more than one dimension. The need of attention, for hating pretension. For the tall blondes with blue eyes. For being able to ride your bike at 3pm between the guys with 3-piece suits. To fruits, to no absolutes. For tequila and choice. For hand-made things, for the yoga and the yoghurt, four poutine and tacos at 3am.
For making love in French, for compassion, the fashion, the Japanese girls, the emotion, devotion, for the creation and the mutual masturbation. For anything considered taboo.
For Kurosawa, Pavarotti, Anthony Quinn, Koudelka, Bertolucci, García Marquez, Tornatore, Robert Kappa, Cantinflas, Buddha y Pablo Neruda.
For the Sundays without anything to do. For the hallucinogens. For the summer afternoons with wine and some friends. For buying a piano before buying a bed.
Congratulations to everybody, and let's drink for the little red riding-hood: because she took the long way, just to blow-off her grandma.
One year more, now I am a project manager from 9 to 5.
But I’m still writing until 3am.
Viva la vida bohemia!
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