“We hope we live our lives”
“As long as we are alive we will see each other”
That's the last thing Yair said to me. We were on the azotea (roof) of block 11, the mist enveloped Caracas, the crazy noise of the city sounded like a funeral song. It was a bullet to my heart. The awareness of one's own end had something terrible and sublime at the same time. Everything was said. The urgency of life, the fascination with death, the collapse of the country.
The extreme violence and absurdity of the situation made life seem like a game.
I remembered the gallina (cockfighting arena) two days earlier . The smell of blood mixed with rum and sweat, the screams of rage, the excitement of each man. An impalpable trance intoxicated the arena. Like we're all crazy. As if blood, death and power make you more alive.
The chaotic energy of the city resonated in each fight like a dance that unfolds, which remains and cries helplessly.
A month later, Yair was shot dead. He was 27 years old.
My wanderings in Latin America were marked by other striking encounters. Like these fighting cocks, I saw beings dancing and clinging to the disorder. Each time I found this same insolent sensuality, like a furious provocation, like the cry of an adolescent amused by danger, condemned and free.