I might have seen myself in the future, grown old, death waiting for me in the corner. I understood the whole thing about perspective and the “is never too late” moved something inside myself and all of a sudden I stopped caring about getting old. I was never going to use the word “decay” again to talk about that place. I still resist to think of a life decay.

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.

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.