I walk.

And that’s fine.

My shoes are tired, yes,

but they still hold me up

when the world tries to pull me down

as if I were leftover, a burden, a misplaced dot.

The earth is hungry—

for me, for you, for everyone.

But I don’t slow my pace.

I’m the result of what I was

and the hypothesis of what I might become.

In between, there’s me:

in transit.

My masters?

They wear no crowns.

They’re silent, yet they bite.

They’re rules, duties, shadows,

the things that “serve” you as you serve them.

A strange exchange,

unclean, unclear,

that leaves marks on your wrists

and a music you still can’t play.

But maybe, someday, you will understand.

Cold lies.

Heat deceives.

So I choose the center,

that moment on the edge

when time stops for a second

and space stops running.

A suspended instant.

A sip of absinthe.

A breath that doesn’t ask permission.

There I lose myself.

There I find myself.

There I become the unexpected.

And if life asks me who I am,

I don’t search for titles, I don’t look for roles:

I answer with a crooked smile—

just as Odysseus did:

“I am Nobody.”

Which is, after all, the most elegant way

of saying:

“I am everything I can become.”