The admirable capacity to put a life on hold. A life that doesn’t belong. Never did. Not to oneself but to no one. A life like a waif. A waif. A stray dog, out of some car’s trunk, never to return, forever to chase every trunk, wishing for a car to slow down but never stop. A car to imagine its own, even if it can never get even close to it. A forever-closed trunk lid, to bark to, to stare at.

What a remarkable capacity, to pit a life on hold, waiting. Not to depart, just because. To sit in the station waiting for a train to wait for its one passenger, and not leave while it is no aboard. Not moving to another train station, not ever thinking it could be a bus instead. Or a boat. Or nothing at all.

What a marvellously rare capacity, to buy tickets and never aboard the ship, to watch it sail, and secretly feel the need to buy more tickets and keep watching ships set sail off the port.

Wonderful capacity, useless nonetheless. To ever wait, never depart, and still believe deep inside, one day, life will wait by that life’s side.

What a stupidly marvellous, at the verge of extinction, dying breed, already rotten — even while still alive — stupendous capacity.



Worth of a museum.

Written in paper, no idea when.

 Probably a long time ago, by the yellowish tone

the paper has, no