It happens.

“We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars"

Henry Charles Bukowski

It happens. Usually on thursdays like today. But it does happen. 

I remember the distinct smell of the green grass and roasted garlic taking over my home. My sweet home. Mom makes lunch, my dad tries to paint, my brothers argue and I sit on a corner listening to Jefferson Airplane. Butterflies are nowhere near, but some butter melts in a frying pan. That's enough for me. 

A mirror looks at me inspecting all my bruises, my white hair and this little black dog that shits everywhere. I take another cup of cold cold coffee and expect another rainy day to come, that rainy day that never seems to care for me, while that old singer keeps harassing my mind as I miss that painful smell of my childhood. 

This hard fought journey keeps getting to my bones, to the core of every rotten fruit on my fridge,

to that old man that just passed by barely making it to the next step. I mean, who walks anymore?

But there I am. There you are. The music in between, old poems written by drunks and hustlers and some cheap rum. Here I am, hiding before my gray hair and roasted garlic smell. And there you are always still, fun and broken.

This mean city will be here after we are all gone, so in the meanwhile let's cut some fresh grass and buy some good old butter. 

I read on a street wall "craziness is life". And so it is ladies and gentlemen. 

Bai. 

J.

23/mayo/2013