I came to deliver. But first, a bit of context.
In case anyone reads previous posts and wonders of my lateness, the "month" I was going to spend in the magical Spanish village I chose, became the *the three months* I lived all by myself, throughout March, April and most of May, thanks, oh thanks, to the Coronavirus, as buses stopped coming to that reduct. As you can see, I am an egotistical piece of shit, but there's no doubt I enjoyed all that time alone, and no use lying about it. Discounts in the rent abounded too, given my situation, thanks to the super amiable landlords who also gave me amazing free food and showed me the secrets of that little paradise, so it was win after win after win for me.
Now about the experience... I lived in a small cluster of streets, about 15 or 20 minutes from the actual village, which is to say, I was doubly isolated, with about three or four families I rarely had contact with. With a forest and a river, and a path to walk throught them. some mounds, and a small chapel with all the sky to myself, I saw the snow falling, the stars shining, heard the forests and grass whispering and the "chopo" tree seeds fall; and the trees and the flowers bloom. The world changed before my eyes in these three months, something my city ridden existence had kept me out of all my life.
Aaand I wrote. Holy shit I wrote a lot. The first 23rd days I read the books I had brought with myself, and tried to write some fiction, but kept on faltering, and never gave my all. Then when the autobiography started, any and all doubt vanished, and I kept writing and writing and writing any aspect of my life I could remember, unearthing all those little things that revealed all the big things, surprised, better yet, absolutely amazed at my findings. I discovered the concepts that have been unknowingly guiding my subconscious for the most part of my life, and of course stuff about anime and Japan abounded (the two days I spent on Japan are two of the happiest I can recall).
When the fucking project started, I gave it about a month... 200 pages, 250 at most... but I still had a lot to go when April the 23rd came round, with about 300. The quarantine kept on being extended, which gave me time to finish the book, but there were few things to do, and too much time. However, the benefits were clear: I actually freaking learnt to think then. I am pretty sure I didn't know how to before all this.
I ended up giving myself a rest on the 20th of May, after 400 pages. I gave long walks in the forest, tried to catch a shooting star and failed, wrote some thoughts, read a book about alchemy I had discovered. I came back on the 25th of May.
I've discovered a few side effects since then: the arrogance, for starters, when for so many days I did not have anyone to put me in my place -real life hasn't hesitated in putting me in my place. Then, perhaps interestingly for anyone who may be planning something similar, I found after my comeback that I had forgot a lot about how to feel intense feelings. Kind of fell into a creative numbness over there, which doesn't seem to regain its previous power now. A kind of tragic sentimentalism pervaded for the first days, but always elusive, never finding a way to make it more concrete... then it wore off and now I've lost most of the intensity, and am trying not to fall into the pit of procrastination and shit. That's been the last surprise: since the moment I stepped out of the train station, the city has been weighing on my head, something as if a cement block broke down on me and made my thoughts come out of my ears like green liquid.
Was it worth it? Undoubtedly, yes. Another note in a life that I don't have the slightest idea of how to live.
Many more things to tell. So many. But not the place. For anyone thinking about something like this, this should be enough.
tl;dr: Then don't read.
