Anniversary of the Dead

One more turn around the sun. Am I dead or alive? Perhaps I am the sum of generations that came to be, and today is my birthday, and an unstoppable thought echoes in my mind, to be alive is to...

I blow the candles. One more turn around the sun. I see my mother and brothers, they’re sitting next to me. We connect and talk. For a moment I slip out of my loneliness. A friend sends a message telling how much he appreciates me. My day is changed. I see the cars rolling by in the road and think, where am I going? If there was ever a place, I’d choose one far from the city, where my dying thoughts sympathize with the blowing of the trees, and the short grass that itches your feet, and where the birds make it’s nest, and I’d finally go crazy writing my poems, drinking directly out of the well of the dead, and I’d realize how much I had and that I was never alone, but separated myself from the apathy of the living. Death is not forever, though a new beginning, and in my birthday I resurrected from the underworld to see myself next to the people I love. The dead do speak a lot, and they mean it. But the living mumbles as their words escape. I wish to talk again, with the spirits that calls themselves old, and burried in the cemeteries of the great people who once lived intensely, without fear, relentlessly and passionate. And then again I fear that the vitality will succumb in my chest, and that my heart will stop, dreaming with the friends that I never had, but who spoke for me, and made me feel once more, belonging to a generation of brave men.