A mattress in the middle of one of those echoing rooms. A mattress and a projector, the only witnesses, the only spectators of my life back then. And a wide white wall serving as canvas.
Emptiness was colourful, fascinating, inspiring, even sexy. Or else it was dark, cold, oppressive, heavy. Still fascinating, though.
I never held a party there.
I never had my best mate over. None of my friends, in fact.
Yet there was flesh, there were bodies, there was heat, there were secrets, escapades. There was fun, laughs, tears, there were life-changing and life-defining scenes, all unforgettable.
And love, yeah, there was love.
It wrapped up with a happy ending: a glass of orange juice, an early summer morning, tender skin under a dressing gown — and a photograph on a balcony, one to remember.
That beauty did not come to stay; she came to take me home with her. I did go, and my squatting days were over. I moved out, started a suburban journey, and sold the squat.
And yet, now and then, I still secretly miss my rock-star life.
