I went to Mass in the Raval
Mariana Meireles Curado
Rage against minimalism, it is Spring! Spray paint your life with beauty. Pollock all over its belly with shades of yellow, pink, blue, green. Evergreen. Exorcise every last inch of painstakingly curated nonchalance. Lent has purged you. You are born afresh. Sun is out. Unclench the fist with which you’ve been greeting the sky. Open it into a stretched hand. Let it flood you. Flooding through. You can now relax into a well deserved child’s pose. The time for harvesting has come. Spring is absentmindedly feeding your lover a piece of fruit. Peeing with the door open. Disturbing mint to expand its smell. Unzipping your jeans after a good meal. Holding hands to cross the road. The sour lemon woven into a naughty bass line. Repentance is over. You can enjoy the small interstices of your own time you are allowed. The ever-spinning wheel has released an inch of its grip on you. That’s all with but one glorious moment of sunshine. This is your sensorial reward for all that you produced in the months that should’ve been reserved for hibernation. You survived the calling of the dark abyss. You are again immune to its lure. Flowers bloom. Boredom is a dear, long-at-last, nice to see you friend. Warm silence. Wild garlic and Vermut. Chilli oil. Angels singing. Drunken-seeming giddy toddlers. Playing football in the park. Add some ice. Hang your scarf. Laughter and forgetting. Spring is Kundera.
