The final attempt to strum
I have been getting strange states of déjà vu these last few days.
I hear the phone without ringing, noises of all the coming visitors while no one is really here and I see your face in every corner I look.
A half-wrecked wall, which is waiting for its momentto collapse is surrounding me.
The idea of collapsing kept me insomniac, I want to be awake to put it all back together.
I think about the past years, and every single meal I ever hated looks like the best thing I could ever have right now.
There’s something strange in this place.
Those days seemed endless, the sky was more blue than ever as if heaven was a cloud away.
And death was a friend, a guest passing by, taking only those who are willing to go.
We used to leave our windows open, wide open to receive the life that awaits. And the curtains were a gown that covers the night.
The road towards everything was known and familiar. Every stone has its address. Every tree has its name.
I wake up in this place. Tomorrow morning, same as today, same as yesterday.
I check the lineament of my face once again. It’s all starting to fade now. Soon enough I’ll be another shadow.
I awake and draw my face the way I had memorized it.
And wherever I get a question on my address, I give a compass that lost its needles as an answer.
I’m a stranger here. And a stranger wherever I am.
I pray for the harsh winds of the winter not to wound all the open windows we left behind.
And the sky seems to be further for my prayer to reach any god.
I cannot sleep. The night of this place is ever revealing.
And there are no dreams here, but what the bags of all the young could contain.
There are no windows here. Death is the only one digging holes that lit the houses.
Everyone is pleased for his services, forgetting the widening of the holes day after day.
And I cannot blame them.
Death is the only window for this place.