Last time I traveled to Mexico City, the place seemed so much… the same. I hadn’t been to the old, tiny apartment in years. The portraits, the wood figures, the things under the bed, the same light. It was as if it had been frozen in time. There’s very few places like that still. When I went out to buy sweet bread for breakfast, walking like a local, I could have stepped into the last decade. She has a house in the most dangerous neighborhood, but I went alone all the same, because bread.

When I made it back, it was the bread that brought me back. I mean, to the present. I bit it in a time that was lost, but when my teeth touched the crust I was here, obviously not the same. That bread place, my favorite one, would be inherited by the owner’s sons, and eventually ruined and sold. Nothing stays the same.

Why do we resist change? Do we let bread crumbs to follow once we’ve made it far? Do we want to feel what we know?

I had more time to think about it back 5 hours out of the city, as I was staying in my old familiar spots. The thing that felt out of place was me. I hadn’t changed much. There was so many things distinct, but I stay the same.

When you dream, what house are you in? I dream of that old house where I grew up, and I don’t like it, because there’s people from the present that are forced to dwell in a past they don’t know. It’s anachronistic. I never liked that house, but I guess for my unconscious mind it is the basic template for a house. I also feel the perspective is wonky. Things are too big sometimes, I guess also because the mind is lazy, and goes to when I was a child for reference.

Everything we see and hear, it is still with us in a way. I wonder if the mind works like a sieve, and I wonder if one could strike gold from that dirt. I think one should leave breadcrumbs. But also venture into the unknow.

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