I’m a hummingbird, a vine of lovers, a leaf in the wind, a bird in the rain, I’m the nervous eyes no one sees, but everyone feels. 

I’m the definition of a stalker and a writer, I’m sitting in the centre of the square, watching life dance around me. Seeing the couple that hugs in the kiss of honeymoon, the friends that laugh with the cell in their hands, the dancers that dance the chacarera lost in memory and the people working for money that only keeps them alive, but doesn’t bring joy. 

And I find that I’m the witness of the bible of this world, I’m the ego at the centre of the world, that I’m the cat gazing at its prey and hoping to win the empirical victory. Because I’m a writer, and I’m a waster, I’m the one who sees the running, the walking and braking of all those lost steps. The slipping of leaves in front of tired eyes, the falling of cups between nervous hands, the untying of shoelaces in broken snickers.

I am the seeing, seeing, seeing of how everything ends because I’m who professes the seeing to have of what to talk about. So I am more the silent thief, the killer without prints, the one with ink for eyes and the desire of telling your lives before mine.

TA.