concha buika

It was 6 AM and I was racing through a fresh LA morning, the streets had just been cleaned and the city still somewhat sleeping. Concha Buika sang 'mi Nina Lola' on my discman and the clear, different morning light wasn't warming yet. It cast a weird light on this city that I have learned to love. It put an impossible night into another perspective.
Only now I can start opening up about this. Slowly digest what really happened. Scratch the paint away a little bit. Tell it as it is. How I sat at the Santa Monica and Highland bus station that had seen so much of my time and you saying good bye, my love, here in LA, at 4:30 AM, sobbing against the wall, with just me, my bike and my guitar. The transvestites walking by, raising their plucked eyebrows, one of them even turning to ask me if I was okay.
My heart was breaking in the wee morning hours of my first day of TA-ing at the massage school. It was breaking into thousand pieces. 'The timeless explosion of fantasy's dreams' as my love had quoted Bob Dylan already so long ago. Summer 2006 and I still didn't believe it.
So now it had come to a different end, I had made it possible by not taking action myself and Concha Buika sang my agony as if it was her own.
I felt so sorry. So fucking fucking sorry man. I felt like I was breaking and I felt that this was a very forceful liberation. I felt so free as I hadn't felt in a long time. I felt free to go wherever I would want to go with a broken heart and shattered dreams like that.
It's not like I don't like my dreams and my joy and my life in this new constellation. But in that morning, I was sitting on the dirty street where they sell speed and I was breaking.