Another kind of trip. A Moroccan dream

The sea has flooded the streets in Marrakesh and everyone is struggling through the lukewarm water – people, cars, trams, dark red buildings covered in intricate ornaments. 

My skin is so much darker now. And my face so much broader. My short black hair is so thick and dusty and my narrow eyes are searching in the mirror for a familiar expression, a familiar look, that strong, piercing force and the flush of passion I am so used to. 

I am a stout man in his late thirties, wearing black clothes covered in a thin, golden layer of sand. My face is square, my hands are big and my arms strong and dull. My round stomach is like a big ball that has swallowed my flexibility and grace. 

I miss myself. Marocco is beautiful, being a man is interesting, but I want my old life back. I must be a huge fan of traveling if I am now traveling through people, not only space. Still, I am done. I want to go back to being me. I like my former life. I want to be a woman again.