I remember, from my childhood, a tapestry of life woven with vivid hallucinations and bursts of euphoria.
As a little girl, I often donned disguises, immersing myself in a world shaped by imagination rather than logic. Inspired by celebrities and superheroes, I embarked on a charming romance with destiny, soaring on the wings of promising possibilities.
One day, when I was around six, I discovered Paloma San Basilio singing on television. With her rich voice, in a spectacular red dress, she sang: "Oculto en el portal, fumando una colilla de ayer, el tiempo en el bolsillo…" Hiding in the doorway, smoking a cigarette butt from yesterday, time in my pocket...
An electric thrill surged through my body as I observed Paloma perform. In a flash, I donned my mom's red tights with its matching bodysuit and wrapped myself in a crochet blanket. My improvised costume felt like a dazzling array of feathers and sequins; it resembled Paloma's and was nothing short of extraordinary. Thus, I sang—or babbled through the parts I had yet to learn—gleefully leaping on the cushioned stage of the sofa.
“Why did you leave me (I don't know why)?
If you were always mine (I don't know why)
Why did you leave me?”
In my memory Paloma —Spanish for "pigeon"—and I shared something truly extraordinary. Like her, I was an exotic bird in paradise. The emotion coursing through my veins and resonating in my heartbeat enveloped me, allowing me to see life through the lens of delightful abundance and exuberance.
Further back from those memories, my experiences gradually blur. I can only imagine that in my early years, while discovering the living world, everything was extraordinary and phenomenal—endless hallucinations woven from a feast of colours, shapes, aromas, flavours, and textures. The realisation of being alive and surrounded by so much life must have been a magical sensation.
If only one could recall the first impressions in the physical world: the feel of water against the skin, the sun's gentle warmth on the face, or the soothing sound of falling rain. These instances, which we totally overlook today, must once have been experienced as a blissful unfolding of consciousness manifesting in a breathtaking state of grace. I feel a deep nostalgia for the primitive experiences that remain inaccessible in my memory—when we absorbed everything with a quiet, awe-struck mind, free from judgment or criticism. Every moment must have been a hallucinatory fantasy.
Yet, as the years passed, the days flattened into a given routine, transforming the impressions of life from the lushness of divine creativity to the familiar and predictable. With time, all that was once extraordinary became trivial, buried beneath layers of sameness and monotony.
Then, as I grew into the well-established way of life, all was funnelled through a fixed set of colours. While fulfilling my destiny, my Paloma faded, and a silent voice in my unconscious remembered: Why did you abandon me? Eventually, I embodied an understated nature like that found in the brown birds commonly seen in the garden.
Life established itself in terms of duality. A landscape of contrasting opposites shaped me, tempting me with promises of paradise while simultaneously warning me of hell. The choice of who to become evolved into a tense endeavour, fraught with the potential for success or failure.
I shifted from “wanting to be” to “should be,” crafting an identity on the precipice of my fears, enduring trials in pursuit of elusive rewards. Worse yet, I found myself trapped in the illusion of satisfaction that never truly arrived. Recklessly, I succumbed to criticism and judgment, chasing established paths and living borrowed lives.
Now, with the onset of gray hair, humbled and weary, and having navigated through a variety of highs and lows, I find myself deeply nostalgic for the old times euphoria. I long to revisit the magic of those fundamental, primal experiences. I keep on reminding myself that the extraordinary is always present and all pervasive.
In my box of fixed-colours, I grapple with discerning what truly belongs to me—my exotic bird—from what I've borrowed—this brown-feathered costume. It's not about flamboyant flights of exuberance, but rather about the ability to connect with life’s inherent, graceful preciousness.
"Why did you abandon me?" echoes my Paloma, and now, soaking in my own thoughts, I reply to myself, "I don't know why."
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