No, I am not a writer.
Nor a dancer.
Nor a lover.
These are, perhaps, some of the most basic things one should know about me.
In this rather tight little piece in the southern world I was given to call “home”, I am, indeed, just another grain of dust.
Apart from the bright days – and they do come – and the scintillating stars on an occasional colourful night, life is just passing by, sometimes too quiet to even be bothered being noticed.
What remains is just a set of dreams. It is all just the dust of a utopia, too silly and prolix for me to bear the memories.
It all may have been rather loud for someone lately, though.
Pretty much as if a perfectly shaped shiny and happy portrait of life were losing, day after day, most of its vivid colours, which ironically revealed how faux the image is.
In that crowded train station, amidst the voices, noises, screams and the rails being scratched by the iron wheels in high speed, you had several directions to take. Not a single guiding sign.
You take the first train, whatever one it is.
And then you feel such a stress taking over.
And then you do not feel happy anymore, you are not smiling anymore.
…Where is the light?
You look in the mirror and clearly do not recognize that bland figure you see.
Not a single feeling.
Numb.
And April progresses, while we fool ourselves, in hope to complete another abstract masterpiece of painting depicting ‘perfection’.
We keep pretending life is just beyond skyrocket fantastic.
We keep pretending that we own a star in the skies.
We keep pretending that there is a candy land of the wonders unknown just before us.
We are so fools.
