“Do you have to see that one, “the old sun-tanned man shouts on the bench when a group of dressed people cross the street. 
Like a gatekeeper between worlds, he sits there, and others with him. 
“They have a nice pair of tets,” says another.
looking at these people who are “watching monkeys”, I realize that what, at the festival I'm going to, is strange as normally in the world out there, which makes me think again of the philosophy of “am I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly, or am I now the butterfly who dreams that I am a man”
normal is of course super relative, because at the festival you can just walk around half bared, without people shielding children's eyes or looking at you angry and disapproving, which they would do in the world outside the festival, which is a small world of freedom to be who you feels that you are, or want to be, but which, on the other hand, is also a kind of cell. because only in that place you can be this, that out there, in the “ordinary” world is not seen or treated as ordinary, where you have suddenly become a curiosities, one thing to look at.

so just like that butterfly dreams, I wonder. Am I free because I'm allowed to be here, or am I only free here because I'm not allowed to be there? 



Butterfly dreams


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