the station

I walk down the street. It brings downtown at the railway station, a place full of hookers and dealers, a place where nobody cares to know me, where I can pay for sex and hear someone calling my name moaning with pleasure, where I can reach a smoke an dumb my senses to an artificial happiness.

It has not been like that all the way long.

There has been a period in which I could still feel.

But now it's over. I don't want to believe in something that will make me suffer again.

I get some warmth from the bodies I get to meet on the way and I drink out my rage.

looking into myself and searching for what remains of me.

I vaguely remember a dream.

sweet, scented, like a flower, cold and warm, I remember my heart beating faster, my eyes filled with passion. My breath was still bringing oxygen to my lungs then.

Now I have stopped breathing, beating, living.

I give it up, letting this life live me.

A friend told me that I had to avoid turning inwards, he said it would have been dangerous. But I don't care.

I don't care, because I lost the one thing that gave a sense to this journey: hope.

The gipsy took my hand and she said "you have a nice hand, you have lost someone you loved so much, your heart has been broken. You really wanted to die..and this man who played with the fire, he abused you, didn't he?" I kept listening to her uncanny tale, asking myself if anybody could have told the same and swallowing my fear, the uncertainty of the future, the pain of the past.

She stopped and looked at me.

Her eyes with to much kohl on them, deep and turbid, looked at me. She seems troubled

"I am sorry Sir, your life is short" She said I'll die at my forty two. I laughed

"What if I pay up. Am i going to live longer?"

she gives me back the money I had given her

"I am sorry" she says.

I look at her walking away trying to realise what she just told me. I am amused, but I feel uncomfortable.

After all this years, only now, I understand what she wanted to say. Death has a lot of meaning and losing hope is worse than losing life, since you are forced to live the life of a corpse or let yourself be lived.

I have no will. Nothing of the warm nights and the loving thoughts is being merciful.

I have been thrown from a train in motion, and many time I have thrown myself down a skyscraper, but this time I don't feel like doing it again: getting up to wait for the next crash.

I have some more things to do, serious things, like build my house on a piece of wreckage or keep myself alive. I will be fine because I always am. Because my nature is the one of a minstrel, being dramatic to reach the bottom and get up again. This could be pure strategy, if I could avoid believing in my own words.

Time to go.

I am walking to the last station now, I will sit there drinking until I forget some more and I can pretend that nothing happened.