The farewells kill a new hug. When we store gaps in the trunk of masochism to caress thoughts or a call, the inharmonious dilemma of existence becomes your silent enemy.
The loves go and return, leaving in the soul sutures. Within them are those you lost in the same place, like those who left, and never were. Everything ends in infinite reflections of guilt and distractions. In a new beginning, you keep it in your pocket, and you pull it out without contemplations. This is the country. Those of us who refuse to leave the ground also lose friends, children, moments, loneliness, music and words.
We are losing lives, and we are losing a country. In the hyperventilated calm, to travel the fictitious ..., -I am referring to the person who remains- of the one who is migrant only in thought, who makes new friends or simply stops believing in them, of having new loves or dies in the tried. He is shipwrecked among multiple jobs, which he keeps for the allowance he now receives. Arrive home, that is, the mobile where you greet your wishes. Then in the day it stops, look at the flowers and spring. The snow and the development.
I'm locked in lies, and longings. If you read me, try to observe what another could ever see on the screen. The photograph waits. And it's the story of surviving the flight.
Excuse me, I am immersed in the thought of the migrant that I have never wanted to be.
Written by Jhon A. Romero.-