Birthday in Manhattan

Everybody walks and so do I... It's Monday, and here we come with our salty cheeks, or rather, they are the ones who come with it. Under the shadow of an unknown number of floors million of jaws chugging coffee; yet they are people of this world with a beating heart under their clothes. Some years ago I wasn’t so surrounded by people and so lonely; some years ago, down there, further down of what is now known as "Fidel Castro", I opened my eyes and a rooster crowed. It must have crowed!! I need a rooster to crows to the Empire State Building with all its passion and the hope that we could be the same... or that we actually are.

Everybody walks and so do I… sometimes I make a stop, but not them!! ... They couldn’t. I breath and I feel my breathing, that is good. That sky was never that far. Never that far and that small.. This cloudy triangle that is not even a full cloud. I feel like cheesy desires... painful ones, to hear my mom talking about anything… To listen the prayers of my grandma… and screaming with an eco, but it is also good to feel a little bit of tenderness for this meekly rushed humanity… some unexpected rootless tenderness; And a little bit of faith, which is my sole folklore to wave as a white flag.This birthday is not my real one, because this "around" is not the real one. I will have a birthday later in December or January, with those eyes that always looked at me, with the words I was always told, under a sky of yesterday over my shoulders and my frayed and stubborn heart. Everybody walks but I have sat... A 30 years old Yankee serves me a drink, he doesn’t know that today is my birthday, not even that is not my real one. They all pass by my side, the blind and the clairvoyant the elegant ones, the Brazilian man in Chanel suit, the messiah in orange robe, the Colombian woman and his gringo lover… others decently clad like cadavers saturated with mild contempt. But everything seems clear, it is touching and useful... but mostly touching I guess… recognizing that time is passing by. This birthday is not my real one, I will have it later, or I won’t, but this is not my real one.