Dasein on a tightrope

My days are running through me. I walk more, I work, and I climb. I breathe deeply on my yoga classes. I stretch to the point that those who see me tell me I am like an origami. I try to reconnect to my own rhythm, my own flow. And I am never completely certain whether this relief I feel is real.

Sometimes smells of Asia, the Middle East or Europe flood me. I don’t look at them too long. I let them run with a shiver in my skin. Am I lucky or unlucky to barely have the time to think with them? About them? I am not sure.

Some times I wonder what is it with our generation of cowards? How did we all fall victim or perpetuators of profound encounters of seconds. Deep one night stands which are not even the exercise of impermanence. Rather it seems to be the eternal evasion, and lack of courage to commit that our generation calls freedom?


I seat in a restaurant called Pita. We eat Babaganoush and Falafel. We are in Sao Paulo. The only person who I actually knew before I sat in this table is a Brasilian originally from Lebanon. We met when he first arrived in London. He had just been crossing borders in the Middle East and he wanted to know the world. He wanted to have access to all the information available in the universe. I was intrigued.


This time he came to my rescue to show a bit of Sao Paulo to my friends who were the world itself. Iva and Nam. Iva born in Malaysia and raised in Australia. A mix of Chinese mother with a French father. Nam ,also raised in Australia, from a family who escaped a camp from Indonesia. A Vietnamese family that had escaped the war.


At night we go dance in Serralheria. Andre shows up. Andre who lived in the UK and travelled a year.6 months in Africa and who I met in the border of the Mekong. We dance. We take the Ozzies of the world to have breakfast in a 24hours bakery at 4 am.

They are intrigued. Does Sao Paulo ever stop? Do we ever stop? I am not sure.


I enter the place and I encounter the Heiddegerian Psychologist I had once met in another cultural event. A beautiful man who told me he could feel my angst. The angst of someone who is always on the move.


He is anxious. He is not so well. I had been to  his house before. His own guts carved by his fingers and imagination into a beautiful house for a happy couple. A house that has to be sold now. One more relationship that comes to an end and closes someone´s soul. I see him now in this bar and I feel he is still floating though he is in Sao Paulo.


I drink Cachaca, the Brazilian sugar cane strong drink, and I am drunk. So drunk that I can feel every single part of me and I can´t really know where the boundaries of my body are. I am happy I feel. Nothing did really go as I wished this week. Yet, I feel a bit braver.  I have thought even less of going away. I imagined myself in the Mekong for brief seconds, maybe milliseconds.  I instead go to my cousin s bed. She is now a sister to me.


Am I happy here? I am not sure. I walk one further step in the moving slack line. I have to contract all my muscles, and at the same time breathe slowly. I have to focus in one point not to fall. Am I happy? For once, it does not really matter; I walk one more step in the moving slack line. I simply am.

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