Sitting in an apartment on a quiet street in Barcelona. Lights are off inside and the sun gently lights the way.  Street sounds rise up from below – a moto, a dog barking, someone chatting with their neighbor across the terrace, laughter.  Music is softly carried through on the incoming breeze from my open balcony, overlooking what’s playing out below me.  It’s peaceful and I sit, merely existing amongst the world around me and I think of places far away, knowing that I too am far away from home, according to some definitions of the word, but again it doesn’t seem far.   A world created through scraps of conversations, passing glances, feelings, and wanderlust.  An alternative reality I’ve created yet I live and love in it so genuinely that it seems material and tangible.  It’s a narrative that I want, designed through what I’ve been supplied and what I’ve sought out.  Perhaps it’s aspiration or perhaps it’s fiction that I want to make non.  But it doesn’t matter.  It’s authentic to me.  It is this narrative that tells of my time here in Barcelona, how it has evolved me and become ever-woven into the fabric of myself.  Barcelona is a piece of me, we’ve grown together.



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