And, however, live.
I can spend my life telling whoever wants to listen to me, that my life was a failure. That, for one reason or another, I do not know how to drive it on the right track. I stayed at the door of almost everything. Waiting, many times, for nothing.
And I can extend in explanations that affect each other, cities and governments, wives, brothers and husbands. To justify each and every one of the evils that fit in the routine of my misfortune.
The cold rain that wets the winter nights when, tired of going from one place to another looking for shelter, I protect myself under the eaves of a building, hidden from all.
My look low when, with my back on my back, I walk among the people who are always hurried to somewhere. Where they are expected.
The hours of my tiredness that seem perpetual. Put in a slow pace in my perpetual resist.
My almost existence in the global context of activities that grant the right to be one among all.
And so I could continue, impregnating everything with my rosary wow of regrets so well learned. Justified or not. Real or imaginary. Difficult to accept.
But I don't want at this time. My conscience is clean and my intention is clear. I exist.
And my old harmonica is in my hands, with its sweet sound. With its evocative power.
I close my eyes and his melody takes me downstream, he brings me closer to a peace ocean.
While my mind is filled with the landscapes and the most beautiful moments that I am able to remember.
Sitting here, about this city span, waiting for everything good to happen.
Still.
