Last hour

This is my very last hour as a 24 years old man.

Gutted in fear of getting older yet again, I walk in circles, looking for some company, just to find out that, in all reality, all I needed was some proper time with my own self.

As the clock makes it way around, it will be a quarter of a century for me.

And what have I done in all this years?

Looking back in retrospective seems utter foolishness to me.

This is something I do every night before I sleep, whilst I pray to the Heavens, begging forgiveness for my sins and misconducts.

There is nothing new in my past for me to discover.

Everything seems so perfectly figured out…

There are, indeed, many missing and unfitting pieces in this fuzzy puzzle.

Uncomfortable situations and perplexity are part of my every day life, but so what?

It is undoubtful that there is still so much to do so as to make some sense out of this existence. Somehow, someway. I have no words for what or when, but I know. Deep inside, as a twirled reflex in turbulent dark waters, the answers calmly lay, staring back at me, while I cannot quite tell them apart.

For years, I have been caught in the middle.

Perhaps finding the beauty across the way, rather than looking far in the distance, searching for the face of the destination, should be giving me the best response.

Perhaps I should have worked harder.

A quarter of century it will be, in just a matter of minutes.

From a year ago, I can only remember, with a heartfelt fondness, the very first happy birthday wish I was given that night, and what a perfect life, framed in a single day, followed.

- And, must obviously, the figure that did not too take long to unveil itself, laying comfortably in my very heart.

A quarter of century it will be, as the clock ticks faster.

Memories, promises and wishes of starry nights and flowered fields remain in the distance, in the other end of the road, in the other end of the air bridge.

A quarter of century it will be, in almost no time.

And I believe I am blessed for getting older.

The third touch

Much north the map, where the one-o-one road no longer reaches.

A long messy summer it was; a third attempt to develop my life it was.

The very well known path took me to all these places I was very familiar with.

Lines, bubblegum to avoid the pain in my eardrums, bubblegum pop to avoid the pain in my soul.

While waiting on the hub, a stranger approached.

An overseas resident, such stranger sported a rather snobbish attitude and a very vague if not inexistent protecting instinct towards the mother language against the influences from the adopted home influence.

An awkward conversation began, just to exercise my abilities to remain kind and friendly even in the most hostile situation.

This, however, went beyond the mere cordiality; it was daring.

As it soon became clear, the stranger was in a blatant attempt to put my own experience to test, maybe to prove a point, maybe to prove me wrong, maybe as a pure ego trip.

I then not only managed to be cordial – I also became intriguing, to the point I was gifted a package from the Alps, which, as the stranger insisted to point, was a recurring travelling destination.

Take it as a 'good luck' gift, the stranger said, after learning my goals on the terminal.

As the stranger faded in the distance – to never be seen again –, I read, a little mesmerized, the wrapping.

It said "nice to sweet you".

Well, I thought, nice to sweet you too.

--

Upon reaching my destination, the familiar heat was a warm welcoming embrace albeit the distance and the time were fatal.

The water was not boiling at once and my heart missed the (expected) craving.

Slightly numb, I reckon, I reached the very same place where, not too long ago, was a marking point of my youth dream.

In hopes that the northern heat was to become my lucky charm to succeed, I prayed and went to war.

After befriending with folks from the South – how unsurprising, may I say – I did the best my luck and knowledge would support.

My dreams failed, yet again.

On the other hand, vacations unveiled.

The warmer sands, the brighter sun, the dearest folks.

That was the perfect scenario to my ritual of spiritual cleaning and renewal.

I'm ready to start anew, I, deep inside, prayed, although still startled by the imaginary wall built between us.

Time passes. People take hands. They leave hands. They look up to a new direction. They take new steps. They lick the edges. They jump ahead.

And then they are just never coming back.

And that is how life keeps moving.

We are born. We grow apart. We move on.

Sitting at the restaurant, prior to the farewell, I contemplated their faces, in all the young glory.

Together by heart, we lived what seemed to me as being a lifetime.

Northern wind, however, unveiled that such era was over.
Inside, we had all changed.

The good recollections will always remain, as the door is closed shut.

You then again learn; there is no forever.

The plane was due and the south was awaiting me.

No posh strangers in the way back; no much drama – much in reverse, a lot of joyful friendly laughter – when reaching the old Harbour town.

And it was then time to look for newer forms of building my dreams.

For nothing remains still.

Happy week, dear reader.

X

Inside the Metrobox

Earlier this summer.

Victoria made history, but a new page had to be written.

So I flew southways, to the tender embrace of family and to the steadiness of the big metropolis.

Oh Holy sh..., the flight took off too late and now I lost the bus to--, I swore on the phone, in indignation, but, yet, accepting my faith.

Excuse me, son, a mid-aged man poked me.

Just a sec -- These incompetent bastards, now I'll have to wait on the terminal for two goddamn hours till the next bus comes and--

Fancy a ride? I lost the bus as well, my son is coming to pick me up, the same man interrupted me again.

Oh, what a dare by destiny. A total stranger, all the way from that piece of messy hell of the big city, offers me a ride, out of sudden kindness and helpfulness.

Reckless as one can be, I just grabbed the chance, unaware - or too exhausted to even think - of all the hazards involved.

The gentleness, however, was genuine, and I was left home.

In a high-standard district of the city, I met again with a beloved portion of my family, but only for so long.

I was being welcome to the best of the inner state, just a whisper away from the metropolitan box.

And there I headed to.

The skyscrapers were the gates to that nearly unknown land.

The night lights, jam-packed traffic and cultural exuberance pouring out from every corner, every alley, served as the demonstration of what was to be found just by digging to the very surface of it all.

Nothing is what it seems, as the metropolitan arms pull you into the metrobox.

The metrobox is a perfect-square zone in the city where all the wonders belong and fly around in freedom. Where techno meets guitars. Where guitar meets northern drums. Where northern drums meet techno. Where it all blends into art.

State-of-the-art.

And I, this little southern boys with dreams bigger than oneself, stood still, contemplating in a major state wonder, while trying and pull out a blasé look, so as to seem familiar with all of that.

Flashing lights. At that point, nothing was new – or was it mind, too restrained to that little frame to understand such greatness?

Tripping the light fantastic, the anthem of that night was shout in full voice.

All I want is something new – alone on the dancefloor, rocking myself to the beat – I just wanna dance.

I ownz it.

On the following day, everything felt easy and smooth. Somehow, the world felt small and gentle and no hazards appeared too frightening or impossible.

Except for my hands, so tied, and my heart, so attached.

I could not move, no matter how loud were the gasps from the metro square.

I had placed myself very distant from the eccentric art of love; the artist in me, however, is not too obeying at times.

And in a attempt to briefly move away from the shadow of the tallest skyscraper – tall enough to make me company that far – I had the confirmation: this is it.

When it seemed unlikely, I learnt where I belong. And for the first time, the negative reaction made me comfortable and thankful.

Upon leaving the metro box, and giving a heartfelt hug to the uncannily caring host that made me company throughout the last few days, my heart was filled up with blissful thankfulness for all I had walked and the goals I had reached – all, now I know, belonging to my very undergrounds only.

On a trip to the smaller, but yet so beloved township of Florence, where one's flowers bloom, and the impossible becomes possible.

And that was where, indeed, a past impossibility, that has long been solidified into the world of my adulthood, suddenly became reality, with a tragically ill-suited timing. A very belated reality.

How can I not think of it? – I mentally replied, whilst trying to contain all the erupting feelings in my head and the doubts of what would be the outcome of when I eventually faced the truth.

Time, however, patched the bruises and turned felonies into misdemeanours.

My charges were eventually lifted.

And as the sun set, I reached the infinite greenness of homeland.

After Victories, Boxes, Flowers and faux approaches of the utopia of Vinovia, there were the bubbling emotions of another doses of life coming to an end.

Finally back to my everyday life, where I can rest and (hopefully) get prepared for what was yet to come.

And as only a fake sign of victory (no capitals, you may notice) was announced, more attention to my plans is needed.

And so it goes.

Thanks for making me company thus far, dear reader.

X