There wasn’t cold. There’s never too much cold where I was born. Even in that November.

 

And they say the moon had covered the sun. But from there you couldn’t see it.

 

I remember I could barely walk. And there was a green and orange ball. It seemed so beautiful to me. And when I knew, I understood it was just a keychain.

 

And if memories lose strength because of time or because more keep piling up, I can’t say. But the sea stays inside me. And its smell. And its breath.

 

What I did doesn’t matter much. But one day I left. And I never went back anywhere.

​

And I was always writing everywhere. But I threw it all away. And who knows if it was a shame.

 

Do you want to become a writer ? She said.

 

And then you’re left with nothing unfinished. Like Leonardo’s sketches. They are so beautiful. As if life takes shape only in the things left half-done.

 

So I told her no.

 

I told her I wanted to become something sure not to please anyone.  Not even myself.

 

So I kept on living.

 

Inside you there’s a big space. For flowers and blood. She said it won't it won't last long.

 

But everything just kept lasting.

 

In a fog. And the scent of a flower.

​

​

​