In two days a list will be published. A surname will be missed in the registry office, another will appear at a border, two initials will cross a secret gate, a country will enter a rank, a song will fall to the ground. I never dealt well with the being listed, not at the top, not at the button, nor anywhere. In high school there were two classmates that always searched for my name on the walls before than theirs. I don’t like to be spotted that way, underneath and above others, by a bitchy finger. No way.
In two days a list will be published and some things could change; many others will remain the same. My hair less and less curly, the bones of my face sharpening my expression a little more everyday… but my homeland will keep on being a fruit, some bands will still keep their name, my hand a pencil, my dad his alive gesture, his touch every second, fighting time, everywhere.
A list will be published in two days. I don’t believe in fate, but I trust in destinations. Wherever I’ll be led, I’ll consider it my place. No other option left. I’m a wanderer, usually, I have my spot in the way. In terms of logistics, they shouldn’t be a hassle. The suitcase I have is easy to carry and can be left anywhere, only kids want to steal it; an old kerchief folded on itself. God. I wish I could stay.
A list will be published in two days and, frankly speaking, I want to read certain numbers on it. I want to park my books on a shelf, keep my brushes in the left drawer, walk the same streets to meet my buddies… at least for some time, at least for a while. And if that’s not the case, fine, I’ll take the kerchief and fly. Maybe that’s best. Should I cool it or should I blow? This indecision's bugging me.
