I kid myself.
I kid myself thinking it will be a tomorrow. Tomorrow I could breath, tomorroy I could scape. Tomorrow I could look through your eyes, and tell you what I really think. If you are in that tomorrow yet, I will be there.
Another time the "morriña". The morriña, in Galician, is the homesickness. The homesickness which is destroying myself inside and outside of me. Thoughts, lost throught the clouds of my head. Indescriptible anxiety which break my soul too. I don't breath. I can't breath. I must to pass these exams. I must to be free and be calm on September. I have to return.
And we will be again, then of discussions, tears, and a strange plot of love stories, hateness and sex. And we will hug ourselves, while cars shout, people look us with a mixture of hateness and envy, and tram cars move without piety. At the same time, I will look around myself, remembering old memories, and, I will smile, with tears in my eyes.
Tears go down my eyes each time I remember that hug. And I cry when I remember me rounding in the Milan streets, hoping the tomorrow never would come.
But it arrived. And now I'm here, in Vigo, thinking I'm happy about being Galician at the end. Vigo, the city of Olives. Tree of the peace, the fertility, the victory and the reward. But I don't have internal peace, I have to won my victory, and the reward would be the result. Waiting yet. Dreaming yet. An. And.
I'm only a phantom of the past...?