SUNDAY MORNING IN MEDELLÍN

I wake up suddenly at 7:30 AM on a Sunday morning, to the sound of a brush cutter echoing down the street. I gather my thoughts and realize where I am. In front of me stretches a mountain dotted with houses: I'm in Medellín. I left behind Canada, so depressing. I am finally a free man. The gardener moves away, and I fall back asleep.

Later, a soft romantic melody pulls me out of my sleep. I step out onto the balcony. Below, an old woman is preparing meat in a large pot over a wood fire. A little higher up, another fire crackles. It’s Sunday, the music fills the air, children are playing in the street, and the sun is shining brightly. I see people returning from church, elegantly dressed. The women, protected from the sun by parasols, remind me of my grandmother in La Réunion, long ago.

Everything is colorful, vibrant. The laughter of children and the barking of dogs running everywhere fill the air with an energetic buzz. I stay there for a while, observing life around me while sipping a coffee. The passersby greet me. My thoughts drift to the past year: seven months in prison in Costa Rica, followed by extradition to Canada, four months of detention there, then nearly two months of house arrest with an electronic bracelet, like a modern-day ball and chain, with every exit justified, and constant surveillance, just like in prison.

What a pleasure, what a happiness to finally be free, especially after all that. And here. I take a deep breath; everything smells of freedom. In the building across the street, a pretty woman energetically cleans while her movements match the surrounding melody.

I’ve had more human contact here in 24 hours than in the two months I spent in Canada. How can human beings be so different from one another?

The women here are stunning, and even those considered less beautiful shine with their sincere and warm smiles.

This is in sharp contrast to the distant, cold attitude of Western women, often frozen in a pseudo-top model posture, full of contempt, truly the attitude of a “bimbo.”

I take a quick shower, then return to the balcony. Watching life come alive in front of me fills me with immense happiness. A group of young girls sings in unison to the song playing from the huge speaker of the neighbor, while he dances, his big belly exposed to the air.

I feel that criticizing the Western world is going to become my main subject, it’s stronger than me. How did we end up in such extremes of coldness, boredom, and individualism, when life can be so beautiful and pleasant in its simplicity?

I want to take a positive approach to things and learn to appreciate life as it is, without constantly comparing it to a system that disgusts me. I want to stop living in opposition and simply enjoy every moment to the fullest.

It’s not easy because I am the product of the very world I’m trying to renounce. I carry within me the problem I’m fighting. I am a rotten fruit, fully aware of my own corruption.

Just having all these thoughts prevents me from fully savoring this beautiful Sunday morning. This opaque filter of rationality acts as a brake, distancing me from the simplicity of the present moment.

I make myself another coffee and try to free my mind from this constant flow of thoughts. An old man across the street waves at me. His face lights up with a kind smile, an idiot. What could he possibly think? I both envy and despise him. This mix of admiration and disdain reflects the inner struggle between wanting to live in the moment and the inability to escape my own thoughts.

I want to bang my head against the railing. How can I be so overwhelmed by so many thoughts, standing here in my underwear, coffee in hand?

Well, I’m not actually in my underwear, but rather in shorts, whatever. I should be able to relax on a morning like this. But when the mind becomes the master, it turns us into real slaves.

I go back into the apartment and order something to eat from the small restaurant down the street. While I wait, I dive into a John Fante book, Dreams from Bunker Hill. Diving into the thoughts of another tortured soul, that’s my way of forgetting mine…