I wouldn’t say it was the happiest place on earth, neither the saddest. It would vary depending on which part you would look at, or what person you’d stared at. From the bar I’d glimpse old ladies and their hairstyles, kept like new by some kind of magic until the day of the ball. The few harsh lights scattered around the club were quite picky when it came to choose what scene to light up: a hand holding a rum&coke, a shiny bald head, the fast sight of an instep, fat yet grateful, dancing to the rhythm of the lambada, a shoulder pad and a dragonfly-shaped brooch. I got lost in the details, nothing seemed to be a coincidence.

I walked in there searching for the decay of an old dance floor. What I found, instead, was a mix of first impressions rather shocking that rapidly fought my inner prejudices. With time, I became aware of searches that take a lifetime, and I also knew that some essences don’t fade out. It isn’t always true that we’ll eventually stop being what we once were.

We travel to a future where desire and loneliness share a throne, wherein remains the longing for another. Where fiascos and second chances dance together on the dance floor, holding hands. Inevitably, for all of us, time is melting away. It's a Sunday afternoon, the lights are fading out, but we still have time for one last song.

I might have seen myself in the future, grown old, waiting for the death, and I say maybe, full of regrets for having forced myself to become someone I shouldn’t have been. I understood the whole thing about perspective and the “is never too late” thing made something click inside myself and all of a sudden I stopped caring about getting old. I was never going to use the word “decay” to talk about that place, a possible future, again.

Then I left, knowing that time doesn’t kill desire.

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