Odio Madrid

Spring in Madrid smells of jasmine, wine and slightly burnt dreams. Everything around is still beautiful - the same streets, the same light, even the cafés with the same worn tablecloths. Only now there are different people sitting in them. The city that once felt like home suddenly becomes foreign: it smiles, but does not recognise you.

It seems as if everything has already been lived, although I would like to do it all again - without naivety, but with the same fire. Where there used to be ‘us,’ there is now a museum of memories: quiet, a little pretentious, and very honest. Madrid promised a happy ending, but as it turned out, the script was not about two people. And now the only question that cannot be answered is where this ‘place of one's own’ is now, if it is no longer a person.