Ghost house

“While my eyes, go looking for flying saucers in the sky”

Caetano Veloso

It’s been three months since I moved out of my country. Three months since I left my job there, my family, 90% of my library and all my music records. Three months since the last time I hugged my mom and promised her I was going to keep my shit together from now on. Five months since the last time I found myself crying my eyes out for a week because I couldn’t figure it out in Caracas. Six months since failure touched my face like a wild and cold breeze. One month and a half since the last time I couldn’t remember my house as something different from a fuzzy place, a ghost place, something that used to exist but is not longer there and won’t be there. Friends and family are all gone by now. Death was knocking the door too hard, too many times a day “Hello, are you there?” Starving faces were opening windows, they were yelling.. “We are hungry, we are hungry” and guns, guns guns, guns, guns, guns. WE WILL SAVE YOU, someone said from far away while shooting us down. BELIEVE US, BELIEVE US, and guns wouldn’t stop. LOUD GUNSHOTS were coming from motorcycles and they were going round and around the city. IF YOU DARE TO GO OUT WE WILL KILL YOU, and we prayed and prayed for motorcycles to come into our house and finally kill us because we were going to die anyway. Once I didn’t hear them any closer I ran and kept on running for days. I knew they were listening to me. They knew I was leaving but they were shooting and shooting from so many days on that wouldn’t move themselves from killing to stop me.

Home, you never treated me bad. I just couldn’t resist it anymore.