It’s almost that fixed time,
I see him leave his house,
with a firm step and decided,
where is he going?
I, from my window where I spend most of my time,
it’s my only animation;
like! today he does not go out!
What’s happening to him?
He is here,
I know it, the lights of his apartment are on, and late at night I saw him go home;
call him?
But he does not know me, he is far from imagining,
that for so many years seeing him leave his house is my only reason for living.
I do not know his number.
I introduce myself, my name is Victor, I am 63 years old, I have no children, no woman or even dog;
I have lived here for so long,
Since this truck did not see me at the big crossroads, the doctors were not expensive, but I clung to life out of a pure spirit of contradiction.
I never liked the paths drawn in advance, I never supported that another than me know what could happen in my life, so I woke up from the coma in which I had probably taken refuge to forget.
It will be ten years in a few days and I am used to the unacceptable. I do not even want to talk to him, his image is enough for me; sometimes he is funny, as if his universe was peopled with unlikely stories that do not tell.
I’m waiting, it’s my way of being in the world.
I wait for the sun for its few rays that penetrate through the louvers of my living room,
the rain for the lapping, the puddles and the smells that emerge in the silence that follows,
the snow, because it will always be snow,
the storm that makes me shudder and tells me that I’m alive.
Oh alive!
There is Irma who comes every day to take care of the material things of my life;
we talk about rain and good weather, that’s good, it’s the subjects that interest me.
I do not engage any more serious conversation because for that it is necessary to be in the life, to have regrets, hopes, convictions,
what do I know?
Me, I’m waiting for Picasso to leave his house, that’s all.
I was the so-called reporter, I traveled the world, the war of men, airports, tidy jeeps, shabby or luxurious hotels.
I have always loved the image, the one that says everything, the one that reminds you of nothing but horror;
and there I found myself full force;
I was always in the breach, between two planes, two wars …
And probably the same fight, run, show, showcase the horrors of war.
The disgusting, the unspeakable, the atrocious, the misery, the despair, it was my livelihood.
To say that it stops, to say never again?
No, I was not a militant, to tell the truth, as time went by, I became stupid, I grabbed images like other butterflies,
it protected me from fear, from wanting to forget me so much I lost myself.
Picasso I feel he could grow wings,
and there …
