It was not what I thought it would be. Some sort of induced transe that would help me experience things out of my body. Instead, for some unknown reason I went down deep into traumatic moments of my life that included my father. Most of them at the club pool or playground mixed like it was supposed to make me feel both feelings good and bad. In one of the memories I watched myself posing for the picture right before my father slapped me on the face. I told myself to either start crying instead of faking a smile without fear of judgment. And the same scene appears as I walk towards my eighth year old self, kneeling, wipe a single drop with my finger and tell the child, he’s a lot more than that. He’s really messed up inside. And that’s ok. Maybe those thoughts came to me cause it’s Independence Day here in Brasil and my father is currently supporting a military blow. I don’t know.