Conjecture

Someone had to think about this story before I created it, I was left with the task of telling it while I intend to understand it, good or bad to say it is an advantage for the reader, it is up to me to just write it as it is , was and will be. The man at the market door moaned in the cold, while I went out with my purchases and saw him taking coins after coins, alms from people leaving, the man who had parked next to my car looked at me and said: “Sure it’s to buy drugs ”. I replied with a nod and an unwell smile. You are gone, I got in the car and left the market, the man at the market door, stayed. I wish I was simply asking for some change, whether to buy drugs or bread, I wanted to be as sure about men asking at the door of the markets as the man who parked the car next to mine, but I am always the waving, always a gesture vague, without faith, without pride and without hope about characterizing their own actions, what shall I say about others? I have already opened ballrooms, paid cash for items I never got to see, tried to avoid dangerous streets with people like me. I hated words, slang, surname and the things we have in common, the community between things and beings. Manipulable and inevitably attracted by the mystery of the beautiful, the good, the pure, the just, as a backdrop for a boring and poorly orchestrated play, without pause, without time, without text, until death separates us or sets us free. But in the meantime, while I am infinite with time, I will draw a parallel, something that makes me present without announcing myself, that gives me a soul without a body, that makes me have a ready answer to any and all questions without feeling stupid , vulnerable or guilty. Soon I will be at home, sitting on the sofa in the living room, with pliers forcing me to break the iron chains I put on my ankles in the morning, I will call it the strength I use to break the chains I call life.