Ramblings from the tilde

If I could blow away the tears running down

The traveler wipes the sweat from his forehead. He carries a heavy, battered case full of forgotten samples, useless memorabilia and fistfuls of sorrow. His mind wonders endlessly because he lost his grip with life so long ago. The panels in the station are starting to be meaningless to him. But he tries, and tries, and despairs.

The traveler no longer knows where he goes nor where he comes from. He has brief glimpses, yes he does, but they are more and more blurry every time; all is like a mesh of milky lines, pale lights, paths to destinations that have no meaning to him. Sometimes a kid asks him what does he do: "I travel", he says, faking a smile while his eyes try to fix a point and fail.

His life is a hollow pit of departures; here, there, anywhere. He tries to recall his past but a curtain of headache lies in front of it: he barely remembers a loving mother, a cozy blanket, a puppy gone too early.

But soon the traveler is back again in endless corridors, all similar, all white, all convergent to a hub that links to another. He only hopes for one trip more, the one that finally erases him from existence, because he is starting to feel like he's slowly disappearing, mirrors not bothering to reflect his wasted image anymore. "Only one trip more", says to himself while trying to breathe an air thick as mud, blinded by light, almost defeated.