Where should I start this story? I wish I could tell you from the beginning. But I don't know how it starts. I am unaware of the true causal relationships of my life just as much as others are. Should we pick up the story from the moment I realized I was the fourth best football player in my class? Or maybe when Grandpa, Basé, showed me the plans of the Sagrada Família – his own plans? Or when I took my first drag from a cigarette and listened to my first Grateful Dead song? Or when I read Kant at university and believed I understood him? Perhaps when I sold my first lump of black? Or when I kissed Bobby – don’t let the name confuse you – or from the moment I first saw the small wrinkled creature crying in my face, and later we would call her Anna? Maybe even when I was sitting in the fishy smell, at the back of the fish market, and he was telling me what he wanted me to do. I don't know. We craft stories; with a beginning and an end, guided by reason, as if life would gain meaning that way.
So let me start from here, amidst all the confusion, here where fate seems to have stopped for a moment, to catch a breath. And I thought for a moment that I had found my way and was moving forward. I got off the bus in the middle of the night. I closed my eyes against the sun, which was crawling heavily over an island to the north, over the sea. Red and dull. Just like me. Behind it, another sea. And at the end, the North Pole. Maybe, in the end, they couldn't find me here.
