You said you wanted some writing. What about, I don't know. So I'll write about planes. You know about planes, right? Those things with wings that take us to new stories, to new people, to new sunsets. They are new chapters and finals. They are, now, one of those few sanctuaries of loneliness. There, where the atmosphere runs thin, we change our environments, we swap the air for new air, not always better, but always different. I'm now awaiting for a new plane that will bring me to you, to your clean and green air, close but so far away from New York's dense and exciting air. But it is all that I can think about. Those eyes. That suspicious look that you gave me for the first half an hour that we had together. That incomprehensible and beautiful kiss. Your smile. Again and again and again. It's weird what my next airplane will bring. I'll arrive, after a quick stop somewhere that I won't even remember later, in Vancouver, a city that I don't know what to think about. Yet, in spite of that, it feels like going home. Don't sweat about it, please. I don't want you to think that I'm moving too fast, but right now I have been feeling a deep sense of homesickness, and home is nowhere to be found. When I left Chile, I said good bye to my home, and then I was left in New York, and home was nowhere anymore. But, for some reason, your smile gave me that warmth. That fireplace. That place where you can feel comfortable to be yourself. It's been a long time since I've felt that. Don't worry, I know that you might come and go. I know that you are a strong and independent person, someone that might have other ways of thinking, other ways of feeling. But, even if this was this. Even if this eight hours with you are all that we had, it was worth it, because I found a home, at least for a little bit. A beautiful, smiling, happy and warm little bit. Planes are supposed to get you home, right? Or take you somewhere beautiful that, for some weird reason, makes you feel some of that warmth, maybe of that global home that we are all in. Or maybe planes just take you far from what you want to run. From fears, from sad days. Planes, like everything, are what we make of them. Thanks for, for the first time in a long time, to make them a place of joy.
