Those are the days, when a grey shadow is drowning in memories.
Those are the days, when the colourful reflection flies in places without memories.
I miss some days.
The free soul, without traces of ink in the calendar.
An empty calendar.
I miss some moments.
Those dry eyes with the knowledge of nearest views.
Present view.
Only a few files saved in my head.
Only a few files wanting to be opened shortly after leaving the warm bed.
It’s not only about tears.
Oh. Fucking tears.
Lessons.
Likewise lessons.
The personality living under my bones brings a smile to my face.
A proud face.
A naïve kid.
Losing the smallest bid.
Arrogant thoughts, you have to have the most expensive things
if you want to wear the winning rings.
As a young, fast player of the local football team, I dreamt of those moments,
walking across the freshly cut green grass in Barcelona.
I’m running, the wining trophy in my hands.
I love you FC Barcelona.
A clear vision in front of me.
Regular training with a bit of sweat at the end.
The most expensive pads protecting the bones in my legs.
The most expensive boots on my feet.
Lionel Messi.
My idol, had the most expensive, the newest model of boots on his feet.
He belonged to the best.
I wanted to belong to the best.
As a young, skinny, shy member of the local gym, I dreamt of the moments
I would stand in front of the mirror, in symbiosis with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body.
Lifting my arms, I’m admiring my mighty muscles decorating my body.
A clear vision in front of me.
Regular training with a bit of sweat at the end.
The most expensive supplements in my bloodstream.
Arnold, my idol sent the most expensive supplements into his bloodstream.
He belonged to the best.
I wanted to belong to the best.
As a young…
Dear lords. I could write thousand of similar words.
A happy beginning of a story.
A sad end of a story.
Look at me now…
Where or how…
Even with the most expensive boots on my feet, I’m not a player of FC Barcelona.
I’m just a fan, only me and sweet donuts.
Even with the most expensive supplements in my bloodstream I don’t have Arnold’s muscles.
Only visible veins, surrounded by modest muscles.
Even with the most expensive…
Even with the most expensive…
Even with the most expensive…
The incorrect belief of what makes a true champion meant whole years
taken from me like shining lampions.
Boots don’t make champions.
Supplements don’t make champions.
Microphones don’t make champions.
Brushes don’t make champions.
Hoodies don’t make champions.
It’s not about things around me.
It’s about feelings inside of me.
Sacrifice.
Focus.
Commitment.
Patience.
Hunger.
These feelings brought beasts to televisions.
The past, blind decisions cost me money.
The present, ambitious heart fed by internal honey.
Eyes around me, laughing at old, rusty instruments, of value less than eighty cents.
I accept it.
I accept it.
I used to be the same.
I used to laugh at those owning modest equipment of everyone that came.
No more. No more.
Only respect. The deepest respect.
Therefore, these lines, wrote by the cheapest pen on the thinnest piece of empty paper.
Maybe powerful thoughts on mouldy paper.
These lines, written behind a small window,
where other people with tape on their hearts,
follow a fake road, like my young, older self.
Colour.
Canvas.
Balls.
Gloves.
Violin.
High Bills.
Empty objects, dying in bins.
Useless bills.
So grateful for the wisdom gathered in the past days.
So grateful for the reward of being genuine in the present days.