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Posted on 2012 at 15
Eighteen years ago, around this time of the year, I became a surrealist. I am sure I can trace a more exact date, but that would require some time. I remember that I went into spring break still being a standard teenager, and that avant-garde literally movements were some of our last lessons that year. My classes ended in late May, so this is clearly the time between those dates.

I remember I embraced surrealism and avant-garde in general to escape. This doesn't sound so ilogical, but the escape I wanted to achieve was a real escape to another world. I thought that by experimenting with surrealist techniques I could induce a certain state of mind that would take me to another world, and once there, I would never return. Kind of like a drug. I didn't quite achieve that, but the world never looked the same after I met surrealism.

Why do I call myself a surrealist eighteen years after my first conscious enconter with it, specially since I'm not so avant-garde anymore? Because I have a huge debt to the avant-garde. It was the last and definitive nail in the coffin of a very unhappy person. Afterwards, I felt resurrected, re-created, confident and strong. It made me clever. It turned my weak points into streghts. I couldn't draw, so I made collage and exquisite corpses. I had a very disjointed train of thought, perfect for automatic writing. It gave me treats which still characterize me to this day, like serendipity, non sequitur and a peerennial association with writing.

Yesterday I remembered my first kiss. I had forgoten. You see, this year will also be eighteen years since my backbone surgery. I remember that in the days where doctors were still determining whether I needed the surgery or not, I met this really handsome and youngish looking doctor. I nicknamed him Gallahar. I was really smitten by him. He was so nice and goodlooking, it was my first encounter with a gentleman. I remember I was dressed in a green t-shirt and my favourite jeans. He took me a to a room to examine me, then came other doctors and my mom. After that, my mom and I had to leave. He showed us to the exit and while my mother went to call the lift, I went back to Dr. Gallahar and took his hand and kissed him very very briefly. I stole my first kiss from a man at least twice my age (I was 14 back then).

The funny thing is that back then I was so unassuming, that the next time I saw him I did not act strange or ashamed. I felt no shame for what I had done. I talked to him, I told him silly jokes, he humored me eveery time. I think that was a time where I felt like taking risks without thinking about what I might lose or win. The important thing was the experience. For some reason, now I feel more identified with that ideology than ever before. 

This is an important year. Lots new things will happen, and lots of old things will come back to life.

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