A migrant who never wanted to be

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In Venezuela, farewells have become the murder of a new hug, at the moment of storing up prayers in the chest of masochism, caressing thoughts or a call. The dissonant dilemma of existence becomes your silent enemy.

The loves come and go, leaving sutures in the soul; because there are those who lost in the same place, like those who left, and never were. Everything concludes in infinite reflections of guilt and distractions. In a new beginning, you keep it in your pocket, and you start without contemplations.

I define the country without them; is another one. Because we who refuse to leave the ground, we also lose friends, children, moments, loneliness, music and words. We lose life, we lose a country.

In the hyperventilated calm, of the fictitious transports, the Venezuelans who have not wanted to leave their homeland, - I include myself -, we become migrants in thoughts, where we had to make new friends or we just stopped believing in them. To have new loves or die in the attempt. We are shipwrecked among multiple jobs and that we keep for the allowance that we now receive. We arrived at our house, that is, the mobile phone; where we welcome the wishes. In the day we stop, we look at the flowers and the springs. Snow and development. Lies, and longings. We observe what another one once observed on the screen, while his picture waits. His story is to survive the flight.

Become the migrant I've never wanted to be.

Written by Jhon A. Romero.-