At first, I waited for magic, something so charming and mesmerising that it would envelope me fully, but then I looked deeper, removed my expectations, and allowed myself to be moved by the art of humanity. This show felt like intrusively looking into a gathering of old friends. They sang and danced and moved in a way reminiscent of experienced artists gathering to relive their light-hearted years by repeating the passionate performances.

I have a talent for describing people’s talents. More accurately, I get the most insane inspiration from watching people’s talents. All I want to do is share them with the world so that just one more person can feel what I feel. Even there, at a Flamenco performance in the middle of Sevilla, I felt it. The dance felt frozen in time, yet it made my blood boil. I’m sure it was rehearsed, but in the eyes of a stranger, an observer, it felt passionately spontaneous.

When I feel moved, specifically moved by art, I am FUCKING MOVED.

I feel the unstoppable, almost cosmic force to create, to write, to be one with the art that I am experiencing by participating.
I want to watch, but I am also forced to write. I tell myself, ‘fuck, I have to multitask, ‘ and almost instinctively pick up my phone to leave another note. I am in a haze of creativity, new expressions of self and art.

I feel a smile come uncontrollably on my face, and I feel the—sorry for this corny but honest truth—spirit of creative expression fill me up.

The dancer moves to the slow sounds of a guitar, stomping her feet, creating a symphonic beat. My heart tries to catch up, be one with it. I find it harder and harder to see this experience as real. It feels like something out of an old tale, like a rift suddenly appeared in the world I am used to living in and allowed me to look into something else, something different.

I am used to writing stories about the work of others. I find it so amazing that in a world of 8 billion people, I get to interact with talents so bright that the words of their stories can’t help but fall on my page. I often feel insecure in my ability to do their stories justice. I keep telling myself I must find a way to make it more unique, more original. I need to make the story match the person, their talent and their truth. It’s a rabbit hole I keep falling into. How do I talk about the creativity of others while using my creativity to tell the story differently, yet not let my own self, opinions and style peak through?

The answer might be this show. It’s not about telling the story differently, it’s about being inspired. Every talent is unique to the person it belongs to, and so is the inspiration you find within it.

Inspiration hides in the gentle gestures of the dancer’s hands. It shines in her passion, in her heart. It is born every time I see someone’s eyes light up as they tell me about a new exciting project they’re working on. And the stories keep coming.

Am I even at the show anymore? This is a different dimension.

My mind is overflowing with inspiration, thoughts, feelings and memories connected and disconnected from the current experience.

The dancers spin their beautiful black and red skirts in the air, hypnotising me into a series of realisations. When I come out of it, I will most likely yearn for it back without realising that its fragile point is its fleeting and situational nature.

I am in it now. I will never be again, but I am now. Let me enjoy the new experience fuelling me. Maybe that’s a part of it—a new experience. Fully new and unexpected things are so rare that they become ethereal.