I think about peacocks 2–3 times a day. You might smile for all the right and wrong reasons and if I won that smile, I could easily end my post here. I propose we continue, because by the end, you will have known where to find love.
Male peacocks wear royal colours and are in a constant foreplay with vanity. It’s impossible not to look at one, let alone fail to admire it. Their green and blue can only be found in saturated postcards displaying a typical night gown from lysergic heaven. When they encounter something remotely dangerous they blurt out like felines who interject “ewwws”. Yes, cats shouting “Eww!”. They are disgusted by danger. Picture dawn slowly caressing the black curtains in my bedroom, looking for skin sprawling and morning feelings under dark blue covers, while outside the window peacocks scream at shadows creeping away, leaving room for milky light and blissful surroundings. No enemies.
We begin making love as soon as our eyes open. Every thought you have is an act of love. The way I put my hands on my heart after my morning meditation, the flutter of mean and gentle butterflies in my stomach, how I sit on the floor in the perfect spot, while the sun caresses every inch of my face with its kaleidoscopical rays, sinusoidal curves flowing in asana salutations, deep lust for coffee aroma and flavour as if I never had it before… I’ve been awake for only 1 hour and already loved life with all my senses.
The more I open my eyes, the more space I make for love to enter my coordinates. I walk on the wood floors, thinking how smooth and warm they feel under my bare feet. I lift my head and see bright green trees, pine trees that smell like Sundays and kisses on the beach, a palm reminder of future exotic adventures, and a yet to identify tree where the peacocks like to take their afternoon siestas. There’s many mirrors in my apartment and they all make me look pretty in the legendary Lisbon light. Half sleepy melting in a hug, moody haired when the mind scribbles theories of relatively realistic scenarios, when I return late at night and brew tea in my side split skirt, moving in a sea of misbehaved consonants and savage escape plans. All of this and more is the mystical threadbare of love.
I have this imaginary bocceluta (translation: pouch), in which I carry a miniature slot machine filled with memories. I pull the handle and out comes that day when I wanted to come up with a constitution for croissants, or how commando I felt under the summer rain, my mom’s face when I told her I want a heroic death not a bacterium end, the rush of tenderness I get from seeing grumpy faces and children with their mouths full of ice cream, the way I become the beggar in front of street animals, how smug and ginormous I feel when appreciated, the artsy rush I get in designer venues, the way I picture paintings criticising me instead, the foolish anticipation of that one sms, all the times I thought I had time. The jackpot showing the soul of my best friend assuring me that it’s ok to be intimidatingly wild and madly in love with everything.
Can you see in yourself what I see in you? Every day I plunge into different pairs of eyes and wonder how can there be so much beauty in the geometry of physical dialog, the symmetry of social mirroring, the randomness of strangers brushing against each other, the lack of oxygen in between our hands, the unquantifiable distance generated by unfulfilled closeness, the way you look at her and melt for no reason, the way you look at him when the waiter brings the dessert, how lips dance with mental appetite, the unspoken fear of what will it be now that nothing ever was, the courage of choice behind every spontaneous act, the alchemical joy in seeing someone for the very first time…
The meaning of life — could it be to live and tell the story? Write to me about that time you felt like Eww and still a peacock. Write to me about that time you didn’t… Let’s get “in touch”.